THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


HUNTING  POEMS  AND  VERSES 
BY    G.    J.    WHYTE-MELVILLE 


THE  GALLOPING  SQUIRE 
•'  The  gamest  old  varmint  that  ever  drew  breath  " 


MUINTEIMQ-POE 


^Y^^f  @  yi-WmrTE-MELVlIULE 

WITH  SIXTEEN  ILLUSTRATIONS 
IN  COLOUR  BY 

G.  D.  GILES 


Philadelphia 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

LONDON  &  EDINBURGH,     T.  N.  FOULIS 
I913 


Printed  by  Morrison  &  Gibb  Limited,  Edinburgh 


THE      LIST      OF      CONTENTS 


LIST   OF   ILLUSTRATIONS 

HUNTING   SONGS  : — 

THE   LORD   OF  THE  VALLEY 
THE  GALLOPING  SQUIRE       . 


page  ix 


I 

6 

lO 

14 


"a  rum  ONE  TO  FOLLOW,  A   BAD  ONE  TO  BEAT" 

"a  DAY'S  RIDE   A   LIFE'S   ROMANCE" 

"THE  CLIPPER  THAT    STANDS   IN  THE    STALL  AT 

THE   TOP"  .  .  .  .  .         "i^l 

THE    WARD      .                .                .  .  .  .21 

THE   BULLFINCH         .               ,  .  .  .26 

A   cavalier's   SONG            .               .  .  .  .27 

"THE   MONKS  THAT   LIVE  UNDER  THE   HILL"  .        29 


PR 

■s-soz. 

HfZ 


G 


THE  LIST  OF  CONTENTS 


AN   ANGEL  IN  THE   WAY 
HOW    HE    WON   THE    SWIMMER'S 
THE  VICTORIA  CROSS 

"boots  and  SADDLES" 

the  fairies'  spring 

"  pot-pourri  "     . 

chastelAr 

chastelAr 

chastelAr 

the  maiden's  vow 

farewell 

the  fairest  flower 

hero  and  leander 

HELP  and   hold 

ALICE   of  ORMSKIRK 

GRISELDA  . 

IT   IS   NOT  GOOD  TO   BE   ALONE 

THE   BONNY   BREAST-KNOTS 

R.  I.   P.       . 

LOST 

VOID 

LADY  MARGARET 

TRUE  METAL 

THE  QUEEN   OF  THE  ROSES 

ESP^RANCE 


GOLD 


MEDAL 


page  33 


AND 


36 
40 

43 
46 

48 
49 
50 
52 

55 
56 
58 

63 
68 

71 

73 

75 
76 

78 
87 
89 
91 
93 
94 


THE  LIST  OF  CONTENTS 


"there  leave  thy  gift  upon  the  altar" 

A   DIRGE     ....•• 
NIGHTFALL  .  .  •  • 

EPHEMERAL  .  .  .  •  • 

COMMUNE   MALUM  .  .  ■  • 

VALERIA'S  DEATH   IN   THE   COURT   OF   THE  TEMPLE 
THE   WHITE  WITCH  .  .  •  • 

FORGET  ME   NOT.  .... 

ON    A    SKETCH,    BY    AUGUSTUS    LUMLEY,    ESQ.,    OF    A 

cavalier's  widow  looking  at  her  hus- 
band's portrait. 

"imbuta" 

"  riding  through  the  broom  " 

the  proud  ladye 

"john  anderson" 

"soul  music"    . 

mary  hamilton 

love's   PEDIGREE 

CATHCART'S  HILL 

"  AVE  CAESAR  !    MORITURI  TE  SALUTANT  !  " 

YSONDE  WITH   THE  WHITE   HAND 


page   96 
98 


100 

lOI 

103 
105 
107 
109 

III 

112 

114 

117 

120 

123 

126 

128 

129 

132 

137 


THE    LIST    OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

From  Water-colour  Drawings  by 
G.  D.  Giles 

The  Galloping  Squire  .  .  .  Frontispiece 

Till  the  gamest  old  varmint  that  ever  drew  breath, 
All  stifi'ened  and  draggled,  held  high  for  throw, 

O'er  the  squire's  jolly  visage,  is  grinning  in  death, 
Ere  he  dashes  him  down  to  be  eaten  below. 


The  Lord  of  the  Valley 


page    8 


Never  stand  dreaming,  while  yonder  they're  streaming, 
If  ever  you  meant  it,  man,  mean  it  to-day  ! 

Bold  ones  are  riding  and  fast  ones  are  striding ; 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  is  forward,  away  ! 


The  Lord  of  the  Valley     .  .  .  .16 

Down  go  their  noses,  together  they  bustle. 
Dashing  and  flinging,  and  scoring  to  cry. 

The  Galloping  Squire  .        .  .  .  .24 

Then  he  takes  the  old  horse  by  the  head,  and  he  sails, 
In  the  wake  of  his  darlings,  all  ear  and  all  eye. 

As  they  come  in  his  line,  o'er  banks,  fences,  and  rails. 
The  cramped  ones  to  creep,  and  the  fair  ones  to  fly. 


THE  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Rum  One  to  Follow,  A  Bad  One  to  Beat  page  32 

Ere  they'd  run  for  a  mile,  there  was  room  in  the  front, 
Such  a  scatter  and  squander  you  never  did  see  ! 

A  Rum  One  to  Follow,  A  Bad  One  to  Beat    .      40 

Till  we  came  to  a  rasper  as  black  as  your  hat, 
You  couldn't  see  over — you  couldn't  see  through. 

So  he  made  for  the  gate,  knowing  what  he  was  at. 
And  the  chain  being  round  it,  why — over  he  flew  ! 

While  I  swore  a  round  oath  that  I  needn't  repeat. 
At  this  rum  one  to  follow,  this  bad  one  to  beat. 

A  Day's  Ride  A  Life's  Romance     .  .  .48 

Till,  by  yonder  group,  dismounted. 
Group  that's  quickly  told  and  counted. 
Hark,  the  pack  are  baying  fiercely  round  their  quarry 
lying  dead. 

A  Day's  Ride  A  Life's  Romance     .  .  -56 

Every  sweet  must  have  its  bitter. 
And  the  time  has  come  to  quit  her. 
Oh  !  the  riight  is  falling  darker  for  the  happy  day 
that's  done. 

The  Clipper      .  .  .  .  .  .64 

A  head  like  a  snake,  and  a  skin  like  a  mouse, 
An  eye  like  a  woman,  bright,  gentle,  and  brown. 

With  loins  and  a  back  that  would  carry  a  house, 
And  quarters  to  lift  him  smack  over  a  town  ! 

What's  a  leap  to  the  rest,  is  to  him  but  a  hop. 

This  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

The  Clipper      .  .  .  .  .  .72 

I'd  a  lead  of  them  all  when  we  came  to  the  brook, 
A  big  one — a  bumper — and  up  to  your  chin. 

As  he  threw  it  behind  him,  I  turned  for  a  look, 
There  were  eight  of  us  had  it,  and  seven  got  in  ! 


THE  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Catastrophe.  ....      i)age   80 

The  Ward         ......      88 

Now  loose  him  !  now  lift  him  !     Your  soul  what  a 
place  ! 
An  embankment  between,  and  a  yawner  each  side. 

The  Ward         .  .  .  .  .  .96 

We  leave  them  in  hopes  they  may  soon  be  restored, 
There's  no  time  to  look  back  in  a  run  with  the  Ward. 

Boots  and  Saddles     .  .  .  .  .104 

Hark  !  there's  a  shot  from  the  crest  of  the  hill  ! 

Look  !  there's  a  rocket  leaps  high  in  the  air  ! 
By  the  beat  of  his  gallop  that's  nearmg  us  still. 

That  runaway  horse  has  no  rider,  I'll  swear  ! 

Help  and  Hold   .       .  .  .  .  .112 

The  black  march  burn  falls  steep  at  the  bank. 

To  the  pitch  of  a  horseman's  chin, 
But  Hold's  grey  muzzle  is  hot  on  her  flank, 

And  the  white  faunch  deer  leaps  in. 

The  Kill         ......      128 


HUNTING  POEMS  AND 
VERSES 


THE  LORD  OF  THE  VALLEY 

Hunters  are  fretting,  and  hacks  in  a  lather, 
Sportsmen  arriving  from  left  and  from 
right ; 
Bridle-roads  bringing  them,  see  how  they 
gather, 
Dotting  the  meadows  in  scarlet  and  white. 
Foot-people  staring  and  horsemen  preparing, 
Now  there's  a  murmur,  a  stir,  and  a  shout, 


2      THE  LORD  OF  THE  VALLEY 

Fresh  from  his  carriage,  as  bridegroom  in 
marriage, 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  leaps  gallantly  out. 

Time,  the  avenger,  neglecting  or  scorning, 

Gazes  about  him  in  beauteous  disdain, 
Lingers  to  toy  with  the  whisper  of  morning, 

Daintily,  airily,  paces  the  plain. 
Then  in  a  second,  his  course  having  reckoned, 

Line  that  all  Leicestershire  cannot  surpass, 
Fleet  as  the  swallow,  when  summer-winds 
follow, 

The  Lord  of  the  Valley  skims  over  the 
grass. 

Where  shall  we  take  him  ?     Ah  !  now  for  the 
tussle. 
These  are  the  beauties,  can  stoop,  and  can 

fly, 

Down  go  their  noses,  together  they  bustle, 
Dashing  and  flinging,  and  scoring  to  cry. 

Never  stand  dreaming,  while  yonder  they're 
streaming. 
If  ever  you  meant  it,  man,  mean  it  to-day ! 

Bold  ones  are  riding  and  fast  ones  are  striding, 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  is  forward,  away ! 


THE  LORD  OF  THE  VALLEY       3 

Hard  on  his  track  o'er  the  open,  and  facing 
The  cream  of  the  country,  the  pick  of  the 
chase, 
Mute  as  a  dream,  his  pursuers  are  racing, 

Silence,  you  know's  the  criterion  of  pace. 
Swarming  and  driving,  while  man  and  horse 
striving, 
By  hugging  and  cramming  scarce  live  with 
them  still, 
The  fastest  are  failing,  the  truest  are  tailing, 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  is  over  the  hill ! 

Yonder  a  steed  is  rolled  up  with  his  master, 

Here,  in  a  double,  another  lies  cast ; 
Faster  and  faster  come  grief  and  disaster, 

All  but  the  good  ones  are  weeded  at  last. 
Hunters  so  limber  at  water  and  timber. 

Now  on  the  causeway  are  fain  to  be  led. 
Beat,  but  still  going,  a  countryman  sowing 

Has  sighted  the  Lord  of  the  Valley 
ahead ! 

There  in  the  bottom,  see,  sluggish  and  idle, 
Steals  the  dark  stream  where  the  willow- 
tree  grows, 


4      THE  LORD  OF  THE  VALLEY 

Harden  your  heart  and  catch  hold  of  your 
bridle, 
Steady  him  !  rouse  him  !  and  over  he  goes. 
Look,  in  a  minute  a  dozen  are  in  it, 

But  forward  !  hark  forward  !  for  draggled 
and  blown, 
A  check  though  desiring,  with  courage  un- 
tiring, 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  is  holding  his 
own. 

Onward  we  struggle  in  sorrow  and  labour. 
Lurching  and  lobbing,  and  "bellows  to 
mend," 
Each,  while  he  smiles  at  the  plight  of  his 
neighbour. 
Only  is  anxious  to  get  to  the  end. 
Horses  are  flagging,  hounds  drooping  and 
lagging, 
But  gathering  down  yonder,  where  press 
as  they  may. 
Mobbed,  driven,  and  haunted,  but  game  and 
undaunted. 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  stands  proudly  at 
bay. 


THE  LORD  OF  THE  VALLEY      5 

Now  here's  to  the  Baron,  and  all  his  sup- 
porters, 
The  thrusters,  the  skirters,  the  whole  of 
the  tale  ; 

And  here's  to  the  fairest  of  all  hunting  quar- 
ters, 

The  widest  of  pastures,  three  cheers  for  the 
Vale ! 

For  the  fair  lady  rider,  the  rogue  who  beside 
her 
Finds  breath  in  a  gallop  his  suit  to  advance, 

The  hounds  for  our  pleasure,  that  time  us 
the  measure, 
The  Lord  of  the  Valley  that  leads  us  the 
dance ! 


THE  GALLOPING  SQUIRE 

Come,  I'll  show  you  a  country  that  none  can 
surpass, 
For  a  flyer  to  cross  like  a  bird  on  the  wing, 
We  have  acres  of  woodland  and  oceans  of  grass, 
We  have  game  in  the  autumn  and  cubs  in 
the  spring, 
We  have  scores  of  good  fellows  hang  out  in 

the  shire, 
B  ut  the  best  of  them  all  is  the  Galloping  Squire. 

The  Galloping  Squire  to  the  saddle  has  got. 
While  the  dewdrop  is  melting  in  gems  on 
the  thorn, 


THE  GALLOPING  SQUIRE  7 

From  the  kennel  he's  drafted  the  pick  of  his 

lot, 
How  they  swarm  to  his  cheer !     How  they 

fly  to  his  horn  ! 
Like  harriers  turning  or  chasing  like  fire, 
"  I  can  trust  'em,  each  hound  !  "  says  the 

Galloping  Squire. 

One  wave  of  his  arm  to  the  covert  they 
throng, 
*'  Yoi !  wind  him  !  and  rouse  him  !     By 
Jove  !  he's  away  !  " 

Through  a  gap  in  the  oaks  see  them  speeding 
along, 
O'er  the  open  like  pigeons,  "  They  mean  it 
to-day  ! 

You  may  jump  till  you're  sick — you  may  spur 
till  you  tire ! 

For  it's  catch  'em  who  can  ! "  says  the  Gal- 
loping Squire. 

Then  he  takes  the  old  horse  by  the  head,  and 
he  sails, 
In  the  wake  of  his  darlings,  all  ear  and  all 
eye. 


8  THE  GALLOPING  SQUIRE 

As  they  come  in  his  line,  o'er  banks,  fences, 

and  rails. 
The  cramped  ones  to  creep,  and  the  fair 

ones  to  fly. 
It's  a  very  queer  place  that  will  put  in  the  mire, 
Such  a  rare  one  to  ride  as  the  Galloping 

Squire. 

But  a  fallow  has  brought  to  their  noses  the 
pack, 
And  the  pasture  beyond  is  with  cattle- 
stains  spread. 

One  wave  of  his  arm,  and  the  Squire,  in  a  crack. 
Has  lifted  and  thrown  in  the  beauties  at 
head. 

•'  On  a  morning  like  this,  it's  small  help  you 
require, 

But  he's  forward,  I'll  swear  !  "  says  the  Gal- 
loping Squire. 

So  forty  fair  minutes  they  run  and  they  race, 
'Tis  a  heaven  to  some  !  'tis  a  lifetime  to  all. 
Though  the  horses  we  ride  are  such  gluttons 
for  pace, 
There  are  stout  ones  that  stop,  there  are 
safe  ones  that  fall. 


>1 
w 

< 
> 

X 

b< 

O 

Q 
O 

s 


> 


c 
o 

►J 

1> 


THE  GALLOPING  SQUIRE  9 

But  the  names  of  the  vanquished  need  never 

transpire, 
For  they're  all  in  the  rear  of  the  Galloping 

Squire. 

Till  the  gamest  old  varmint  that  ever  drew 
breath, 
All  stiffened  and  draggled,  held  high  for  a 
throw, 

O'er  the  squire's  jolly  visage,  is  grinning  in 
death, 
Ere  he  dashes  him  down  to  be  eaten  below, 

While  the  daws  flutter  out  from  a  neighbour- 
ing spire 

At  the  thrilling  who-whoop  of  the  Galloping 
Squire. 

And  the  labourer  at  work,  and  the  lord  in  his 

hall. 
Have  a  jest  or  a  smile  when  they  hear  of 

the  sport. 
In  ale  or  in  claret  he's  toasted  by  all, 
For  they  never  expect  to  see  more  of  the  sort. 
And  long  may  it  be  ere  he's  forced  to  retire, 
For  we  breed  very  few  like  the  Galloping 

Squire. 

2 


"A  RUM  ONE  TO  FOLLOW, 
A  BAD  ONE  TO  BEAT" 

Come,  I'll  give  you  the  health  of  a  man  we 

all  know, 
A  man  we  all  swear  by,  a  friend  of  our  own, 
With  the  hounds  running  hardest,  he's  safest 

to  go, 
And  he's  always  in  front,  and  he's  often  alone. 
A  rider  unequalled — a  sportsman  complete, 
A  rum  one  to  follow,  a  bad  one  to  beat. 


As  he  sits  in  the  saddle,  a  baby  could  tell 

He  can  hustle  a  sticker,  a  flyer  can  spare. 
He  has  science,  and  nerve,  and  decision  as 
well, 
He  knows  where  he's  going  and  means  to 
be  there. 


"A  RUM  ONE  TO  FOLLOW"      ii 

The  first  day  I  saw  him  they  said  at  the  meet, 
"  That's  a  rum  one  to  follow,  a  bad  one  to  beat." 

We  threw  off  at  the  Castle,  we  found  in  the 

holt. 
Like  wildfire  the  beauties  went  streaming 

away, 
From  the  rest  of  the  field  he  came  out  like  a 

bolt. 
And  he  tackled  to  work  like  a  schoolboy 

to  play, 
As  he  rammed  down  his  hat,  and  got  home 

in  his  seat, 
This  rum  one  to  follow,  this  bad  one  to  beat. 

'Twas  a  caution,  I  vow,  but  to  see  the  man 

ride! 
O'er  the  rough  and  the  smooth  he  went 

sailing  along ; 
And  what  Providence  sent  him,  he  took  in 

his  stride. 
Though  the  ditches  were  deep,  and  the 

fences  were  strongf. 
Thinks  I,  "  If  he  leads  me  I'm  in  for  a  treat, 
With  this  rum  one  to  follow,  this  bad  one  to 

beat ! " 


12      "A  RUM  ONE  TO  FOLLOW, 

Ere  they'd  run  for  a  mile,  there  was  room  in 

the  front, 
Such  a  scatter  and  squander  you  never  did 

see  ! 
And  I  honestly  own  I'd  been  out  of  the  hunt, 
But  the  broad  of  his  back  was  the  beacon 

for  me. 
So  I  kept  him  in  sight,  and  was  proud  of  the 

feat, 
This  rum  one  to  follow,  this  bad  one  to  beat ! 

Till  we  came  to  a  rasper  as  black  as  your  hat. 
You  couldn't  see  over — -you  couldn't  see 

through. 
So  he  made  for  the  gate,  knowing  what  he 

was  at, 
And  the  chain  being  round  it,  why — over 

he  flew ! 
While  I  swore  a  round  oath  that  I  needn't 

repeat, 
At  this  rum  one  to  follow,  this  bad  one  to  beat. 

For  a  place  I  liked  better  I  hastened  to  seek. 
But  the  place  I  liked  better  I  sought  for  in 
vain  ; 
And  I  honestly  own,  if  the  truth  I  must  speak, 


A  BAD  ONE  TO  BEAT"  13 

That  I  never  caught  sight  of  my  leader 

again. 
But  I  thought,  "I'd  give  something  to  have 

his  receipt," 
This  rum  one  to  follow,  this  bad  one  to  beat. 

They  told  me  that  night  he  went  best  through 
the  run, 
They  said  that  he  hung  up  a  dozen  to  dry, 
When  a  brook  in  the  bottom  stopped  most  of 
their  fun. 
But  I  know  that  I  never  went  near  it,  not  I. 
For  I  found  it  a  fruitless  attempt  to  compete 
With  this  rum  one  to  follow,  this  bad  one  to 
beat. 

So  we'll  fill  him  a  bumper  as  deep  as  you  please. 
And  we'll  give  him  a  cheer,  for  deny  it  who 

can, 
When  the  country  is  roughest  he's  most  at 

his  ease. 
When  the  run  is  severest,  he  rides  like  a 

man. 
And  the  pace  cannot  stop,  nor  the  fences 

defeat, 
This  rum  one  to  follow,  this  bad  one  to  beat. 


"A  DAY'S  RIDE  A  LIFE'S 
ROMANCE" 

When  the  early  dawn  is  stealing 
O'er  the  moorland  edge,  revealing 
All  the  tender  tints  of  morning  ere  she 
flushes  into  day, 
Then  beneath  her  window,  shaking 
Bit  and  bridle,  while  she's  waking, 
Stands  a  bonny  steed  caparisoned  to  bear  my 
love  away ; 
By  hill  and  holt  to  follow, 
Hound  and  horn,  and  huntsman's  holloa, 
Follow  !  follow  !  where  they  lure  us,  follow, 
follow  as  we  may  ! 


«A  DAY'S  RIDE"  15 

When  the  chase  is  onward  speeding, 
With  its  boldest  spirits  leading, 
When  the  red  is  on  the  rowel,  and  the  foam 
is  on  the  rein. 
Far  in  front  her  form  is  fleeting. 
And  her  gentle  heart  is  beating. 
With  the  rapture  of  the  revel,  as  it  sweeps 
across  the  plain ; 
Then  I  press  by  dint  of  riding 
Where  my  beacon  star  is  guiding, 
And  the  laggard  spurring  madly  hurries  after 
us  in  vain. 

O'er  the  open  still  careering, 
Fence  and  furrow  freely  clearing, 
Like  the  winds  of  heaven  leaving  little  trace 
of  where  we  pass  ; 
With  that  merry  music  ringing, 
Father  Time  is  surely  flinging 
Golden  sand  about  the  moments  as  he  shakes 
them  from  the  glass  ; 
Horn  and  hound  are  chiming  gladly, 
Horse  and  man  are  vying  madly. 
In  the  glory  of  the  gallop.     Forty  minutes  on 
the  grass ! 


1 6  "A  DAY'S  RIDE" 

Till,  by  yonder  group,  dismounted, 
Group  that's  quickly  told  and  counted, 
Hark,  the  pack  are  baying  fiercely  round 
their  quarry  lying  dead  ; 
But  from  eyes  that  shine  so  brightly 
Such  a  spectacle  unsightly 
Must  be  hidden,  as  we  hide  each  thing  of 
sorrow  and  of  dread  ; 
So  she  gathers  up  her  tresses. 
And  with  loving  hand  caresses 
Neck  and  shoulder  of  the  bonny  steed,  and 
homeward  turns  his  head. 

Every  sweet  must  have  its  bitter, 
And  the  time  has  come  to  quit  her. 
Oh !  the  night  is  falling  darker  for  the  happy 
day  that's  done ; 
Now  I  wish  I  were  the  bridle. 
In  the  fingers  of  mine  idol. 
Now  I  wish  I  were  the  bonny  steed  that  bore 
her  through  the  run  ; 
For  I  fain  would  still  be  nearest 
To  my  loveliest  and  dearest, 
And  I  fain  would  be  the  truest  slave  that  ever 
worshipped  one ! 


THE  LORD  OF  THE  VALLEY 
"  Down  go  their  aoses,  together  they  bustle  " 


"THE  CLIPPER  THAT  STANDS 
IN  THE  STALL  AT  THE  TOP  " 

{Dedicated  to  the  Hon.  Charles  White, 
Scots  Fusilier  Gtiards) 

Go  strip  him,  lad  !    Now,  sir,  I  think  you'll 

declare 
Such  a  picture  you  never  set  eyes  on  before. 
He  was  bought  in  at  Tatt's  for  three  hundred 

I  swear. 
And  he's  worth  all  the  money  to  look  at, 

and  more  ; 
For  the  pick  of  the  basket,  the  show  of  the 

shop. 
Is  the  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the 

top. 


1 8  "THE  CLIPPER" 

In  the  records  of  racing  I  read  their  career, 
There  were  none  of  the  sort  but  could 
gallop  and  stay, 
At  Newmarket  his  sire  was  the  best  of  his 
year, 
And  the  Yorkshiremen  boast  of  his  dam 
to  this  day  ; 
But  never  a  likelier  foal  did  she  drop, 
Than  this  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at 
the  top. 

A  head  like  a  snake,  and  a  skin  like  a  mouse. 
An  eye  like  a  woman,  bright,  gentle,  and 

brown. 
With  loins  and  a  back  that  would  carry  a 

house, 
And  quarters  to  lift  him  smack  over  a 

town ! 
What's  a  leap  to  the  rest,  is  to  him  but  a 

hop. 
This  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the 

top. 

When  the  country  is  deepest,  I  give  you  my 
word, 


"THE  CLIPPER"  19 

'Tis  a  pride  and  a  pleasure  to  put  him  along, 
O'er  fallow  and  pasture  he  sweeps  like  a 

bird, 
And  there's  nothing  too  wide,  nor  too  high, 

nor  too  strong ; 
For  the  ploughs  cannot  choke,  nor  the  fences 

can  crop. 
This  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

Last  Monday  we  ran  for  an  hour  in  the  Vale, 
Not  a  bullfinch  was  trimmed,  of  a  gap  not 

a  sign ! 
All  the  ditches  were  double,  each  fence  had 

a  rail ; 
And  the  farmers  had  locked  every  gate  in 

the  line, 
So  I  srave  him  the  office,  and  over  them — 

Pop! 
Went  the  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at 

the  top. 

I'd  a  lead  of  them  all  when  we  came  to  the 
brook, 
A  big  one — a  bumper — and  up  to  your  chin. 
As  he  threw  it  behind  him,  I  turned  for  a  look, 


20  "THE  CLIPPER" 

There  were  eight  of  us  had  it,  and  seven 

got  in ! 
Then  he  shook  his  lean  head  when  he  heard 

them  go  plop ! 
This  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

Ere  we  got  to  the  finish,  I  counted  but  few, 

And  never  a  coat  without  dirt,  but  my  own. 
To  the  good  horse  I  rode,  all  the  credit  was 
due, 
When  the  others  were  tiring,  he  scarcely 
was  blown  ; 
For  the  best  of  the  pace  is  unable  to  stop 
The  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at  the  top. 

You  may  put  on  his  clothes — every  sportsman, 
they  say, 
In  his  lifetime  has  one  that  outrivals  the 
rest. 

So  the  pearl  of  my  casket  I've  shown  you  to- 
day, 
The  gentlest,  the  gamest — the  boldest,  the 
best — 

And  I  never  will  part,  by  a  sale  or  a  swop, 

With  my  Clipper  that  stands  in  the  stall  at 
the  top ! 


THE  WARD 

{Dedicated  by  permission  to  Mrs.  J.  L.  Morrogh) 

There  are  flowers  on  the  earth,  there  are 

gems  in  the  sea, 
There's  the  pearl,  and  the  ruby — the  lily, 

the  rose, 
But  the  emerald  green  is  the  jewel  for  me, 
And  the  shamrock's  the  dearest  of  posies 

that  grows. 
For  the  flower  and  the  gem  are  combined  in 

the  sward. 
That  gives  pleasure  and  pace  to  a  run  with 

the  Ward. 


Oh !  the  harrier  makes  music  that's  sweet  to 
the  ear, 
And  the  note  of  the  foxhound  rings  home 
to  the  brain, 


2  2  THE  WARD 

But  the  sport  we  love  best  is  a  spin  with  the 

deer, 
O'er  the  pick  of  the  pasture,  the  pride  of 

the  plain ; 
Where  the  men  of  the  hunt,  and  the  men  of 

the  sword, 
Are  at  work  with  their  spurs  to  ride  up  to  the 

Ward. 

Not  a  moment  to  lose  if  you'd  share  in  the 

fun, 
Of  a  gate,  or  a  gap,  not  a  sign  to  be  seen  ! 
Ere  the  dancers  are  ready,  the  music's  begun. 
To  the  tune,  if  you  like  it,  of  "  Wearing  the 

Green  "  ; 
For  a  horse  may  be  grassed,  and  his  rider  be 

floored, 
In  a  couple  of  shakes,  when  they  start  with 

the  Ward. 

Now  loose  him  !  now  lift  him  !    Your  soul 

what  a  place ! 
An  embankment  between,  and  a  yawner 

each  side. 
What  delivered  us  over  alone  was  the  pace, 


THE  WARD  23 

Never  spare  when  you're  "on  an  engage- 
ment "  to  ride ! 

For  the  whip  must  be  drawn,  and  the  flanks 
must  be  scored, 

If  you're  called  on  in  earnest  to  live  with  the 
Ward. 

Then  forward  !    The  hounds  are  still  fleeting 

away, 
How  they  drive  for  a  scent — how  they 

press  for  a  view  ! 
Now  they  have  it !  and  strain  at  the  flanks  of 

their  prey, 
As  he  scuds  by  Dun-shaughlin  and  on  to 

Kilrue ; 
While  the  field  are  beat  off,  from  the  lout  to 

the  lord, 
For  the  tail  of  a  comet's  a  joke  to  the  Ward. 

The  boldest  are  baffled — the  best  are  out- 
paced, 
For  "  wreckers  "  and  ropes,  at  each  fence 
there's  a  call, 
What  with  riders  dismounted,  and  horses  dis- 
graced, 
You'd  think  not  a  leap  was  left  in  us  at  all ! 


24  THE  WARD 

But  the  humours  your  bard  hasn't  breath  to 

record, 
For  disasters  came  thick  at  the  pace  of  the 

Ward. 

Like  fairies  we  whirl  by  the  fairy-house, — see. 
They  are  down  in  the  gripe,  and  the  mare's 

on  the  man ! 
But  a  voice  cometh  up  from  the  deep,  and 

says  he, 
"It's  pretendin'  ye  are  !    Sure,  ye're  scham- 

in'  it.  Fan  ! " 
So  we  leave  them  in  hopes  they  may  soon  be 

restored. 
There's  no  time  to  look  back  in  a  run  with 

the  Ward. 

At  the  finish  how  few  are  there  left  in  the 
game  ! 
And  the  few  that  are  left  seem  well  pleased 
to  be  there. 
But  an  Irishman  rides  for  the  sport,  not  the 
fame, 
And  it's  little  he'll  trouble,  and  less  that 
he'll  care 


THE  GALLOPING  SQUIRE 
"  Such  a  rare  one  to  ride  is  the  galloping  squire ' 


THE  WARD 


25 


For  the  stakes,  when  the  pieces  are  swept 

from  the  board, 
It's  "divarsion"  he  loves, — so  he  hunts  with 

the  Ward. 

Then  success  to  the  master !  more  power  ! 

and  long  life ! 
Success  to  his  horses,  his  hounds,  and  his 

men ! 
And  the  brightest  of  days  to  his  fair  lady-wife ! 
May  she  lead  us,  and  beat  us  again  and 

again ! 
Thus  from  sorrow  to  borrow  all  fate  can  afford, 
With  Morrogh,  to-morrow,  we'll  hunt  with 

the  Ward. 


THE  BULLFINCH 

MY  first  is  the  point  of  an    Irishman's 
tale, 
My  second's  a  tail  of  its  own  to  disclose, 
But  I  warn  you  in  time  lest  your  courage 
should  fail. 
If  you're  troubled  with  either  the  shakes  or 
the  slows, 
That  the  longer  you  look  at  my  whole  in  the 
vale, 
The  bigger,  and  blacker,  and  bitterer  it 
grows ! 


A  CAVALIER'S  SONG 

FROM    "HOLMBY    house" 

HO  !    fill  me  a  flagon,  as  deep  as  you 
please, 
Ho !  pledge  me  the  health  that  we  quaff  on 

our  knees. 
And  the  knave  who  refuses  to  drink  till  he 

fall. 
Why  the  hangman  shall  crop  him — ears,  love- 
locks, and  all. 

Then  a  halter  we'll  string, 
And  the  rebel  shall  swing. 
For  the  gallants  of  England  are  up  for  the 
King! 

Ho !  saddle  my  horses  as  quick  as  you  may, 
The  sorrel,  the  black,  and  the  white-footed  bay. 
The  troop  shall  be  mustered,  the  trumpet 

shall  peal. 
And  the  Roundhead  shall  taste  of  a  Cavalier's 

steel. 

For  the  little  birds  sing, 
There  are  hawks  on  the  wing 
When  the  gallants  of  England  are  up  for  the 

King! 


28  A  CAVALIER'S  SONG 

Ho !  fling  me  my  beaver,  and  toss  me  the 

glove, 
That  but  yesterday  clung  to  the  hand  of  my 

love, 
To  be  bound  on  my  crest — to  be  borne  in 

the  van. 
And  the  rebel  that  reaps  it  must  fight  like  a 

man ! 

For  the  sabre  shall  swing, 
And  the  head-pieces  ring, 
When  the  orallants  of  England  strike  home 

for  the  King ! 

Ho !  crush  me  a  cup  to  the  queen  of  my 

heart ! 
Ho  !   fill  me  a  brimmer,  the  last  ere  we 

part. 
A  health  to  Prince  Rupert !     Success  and 

renown ! 
To  the  dogs  with  the  Commons !  and  up 

with  the  Crown ! 

Then  the  stirrup-cup  bring. 
Quaff  it  round  in  a  ring  ! 
To  your  horses !  and  ride  to  the  death  for 

the  King ! 


l«,W-„»M.  »" 


"THE  MONKS  THAT  LIVE 
UNDER  THE  HILL" 

Would  it  lighten  your  conscience,  sweet 
Leicestershire  maid, 
To  be  shriven,  though  guiltless  of  ill  ? 
There's  a  snug  little  priory  lurks  in  the  glade, 
Like  a  nest  in  a  meadow,  and  don't  be  afraid. 
For  remorseful  young  ladies  are  quite  in  the 
trade 
Of  the  Monks  that  live  under  the  hill. 


'Tis  a  brotherhood  zealous  and  pious,  no 
doubt. 
And  their  duties  they  seem  to  fulfil, 


30  "THE  MONKS" 

By  creating  a  good  deal  of  racket  and  rout, 
By  despising  repose  and  ignoring  the  gout, 
And  by  keeping  the  steam  up  within  and 
without, 
These  monks  that  live  under  the  hill. 

They  are  seldom  in  bed  before  Matins  or 
Prime, 
Though  they  often  rise  early  for  drill. 

But  at  luncheon  a  "  Pick-me-up  "  brings  them 
to  time, 

Till  their  Vespers  ring  out  with  the  dinner- 
bell's  chime. 

And  by  Complines,  the  form  becomes  truly 
sublime, 
Of  these  Monks  that  live  under  the  hill. 

They  are  given  to  dancing  in  London,  men 
say, 
And  to  flirting,  I'm  told,  with  a  will, 
But  in  Leicestershire  trifling  like  this  wouldn't 

pay, 
Where  the  business  of  life  is  to  hunt  every  day. 
And  the  nights  must  take  care  of  themselves 
as  they  may. 
With  the  Monks  that  live  under  the  hill. 


"THE  MONKS"  31 

So  their  riding  is  reckless,  their  courage  is 

high, 
And  regardless  of  cropper  or  spill, 
Their  "  oxers  "  they  rattle, — their  "  raspers  " 

they  fly, 
At  the  widest  of  water  they  will  have  a  shy, 
And  while  horses  can  wag,  it  is  "  Never  say 

die ! " 
With  these  Monks  that  live  under  the 

hill. 

Till  at  even-song  homeward  like  rooks  they 

repair, 
When  they've  ended  the  day  with  a  kill. 
And  they'll  chant  you  some  canticles,  racy 

and  rare, 
And  they'll  tell  you  some  tales  would  make 

many  men  stare, 
And  they'll  bid  you  to  dine  on  the  daintiest 

fare, 
Will  these  Monks  that  live  under  the  hill. 

Then  the  Prior  will  press  you  to  taste  of  his 
best. 
Of  the  sweet,  and  the  dry,  and  the  still. 


32  "THE  MONKS'* 

While  the  jolly  Sacristan  will  pass  you  his 

jest, 
And  the  Father  Confessor  will  fill  for  the 

guest, 
And  you'll  vow  such  a  life  is  a  life  of  the 

blest, 
With  these  Monks  that  live  under  the  hill. 

Then  long  may  it  be  so !  and  long  may  they 
thrive ! 
Uncaptured  by  feminine  skill. 
For  the  bachelor-bees  have  the  best  of  the 

hive, 
And  our  Priory-priests  are  too  precious  to 

wive, 
And  the  pick  of  the  choicest  companions  alive 
Are  the  Monks  that  live  under  the  hill. 


T   .    C    .  D 


< 

2  '- 

Q  a 

<  3 

«  2. 


a 

3 


O 

o  ii 

l-l  IS 

u 

w  : 

o  -S 

p  - 

Pi 


AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  WAY 

Fair  the  downward  path  is  spread, 

Love  and  hght  thy  coming  greet, 
Fruit  is  blushing  o'er  thy  head, 

Flowers  are  springing  'neath  thy  feet. 
Mirth  and  sin,  with  tossing  hands, 

Wave  thee  on,  a  willing  prey  ; 
Yet  an  instant  pause — there  stands 

An  angel  in  the  way. 

Heed  the  heavenly  warning,  know 
Fairest  flowers  the  feet  may  trip ; 

Fruits,  that  like  the  sunset  glow. 
Turn  to  ashes  on^the  lip. 
5 


34         AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  WAY 

Though  the  joys  be  wild  and  free, 
Though  the  paths  be  pleasant,  stay  ! 

Even  mortal  eye  can  see 
An  angel  in  the  way. 

Wilt  thou  drown  in  worldly  pleasure, 

Wilt  thou  have,  like  him  of  old, 
Length  of  days  and  store  of  treasure. 

Wisdom,  glory,  power  and  gold  ? 
Life  and  limb,  shall  sickness  waste. 

Want  shall  grind  thee  day  by  day. 
Still  to  win  thee,  God  hath  placed 

An  angel  in  the  way. 

Trusting  all  on  things  that  perish, 

Shall  a  hopeless  faith  be  thine  ? 
Earthly  idol  wilt  thou  cherish  ? 

Bow  before  an  earthly  shrine  ? 
Meet  rebuke  to  mortal  love 

Yearning  for  a  child  of  clay. 
Death  shall  cross  thy  path,  and  prove 

An  angel  in  the  way. 

When  the  prophet  thought  to  sin. 
Tempted  by  his  heathen  guide  ; 


AN  ANGEL  IN  THE  WAY 

When  a  prince's  grace  to  win, 

Prophet-lips  would  fain  have  lied, 

Even  the  brute  the  sage  controlled  ; 
Found  a  human  voice,  to  say 

"  Master,  smite  me  not — Behold 
An  angel  in  the  way  !  " 

So,  when  vice,  to  lure  her  slave, 

Woos  him  down  the  shining  track. 
Spirit-hands  are  stretched  to  save, 

Spirit-voices  warn  him  back. 
Heart  of  man  !  to  evil  prone. 

Chafe  not  at  thy  sin's  delay. 
Bow  thee  humbly  down,  and  own 

An  angel  in  the  way. 


35 


€      O     _^<>'»C3pu: 


From  the  "  London  Gazette." 

Victoria  Cross.    7th  Hussars.    Major  Charles 
Craufurd  Fraser. 

"  For  conspicuous  and  cool  gallantry  on  the  3 1  st  December, 
1858,  in  having  volunteered,  at  great  personal  risk,  and  under 
a  sharp  fire  of  musketry,  to  swim  to  the  rescue  of  Captain 
Stisted  and  some  men  of  the  7th  Hussars,  who  were  in  im- 
minent danger  of  being  drowned  in  the  river  Raptee,  while 
in  pursuit  of  the  rebels.  Major  Fraser  succeeded  in  this 
gallant  service,  although  at  the  time  partially  disabled,  not 
having  recovered  from  a  severe  wound  received  while  leading 
a  squadron  in  a  charge  against  some  Fanatics,  in  the  action 
of  Nawabgunge,  on  the  13th  of  June,  1858." 

HOW  HE  WON  THE  SWIMMER'S 

GOLD  MEDAL  AND  THE 

VICTORIA  CROSS 

Gleaming  eyes,  and  dusky  faces, 

Brazen  guns,  depressed  for  slaughter, 

Track  of  blood  in  furrowed  places, 
There  the  jungle,  here  the  water ; 


THE  VICTORIA  CROSS  z'] 

Eager  troop  and  opening  section, 
Crash  of  grape,  and  hiss  of  ball. 

Trumpets  at  a  chief's  direction 
Sounding  the  Recall. 

"Turn  again,  we  shall  not  heed  them, 

Gallant  steed,  so  loyal  and  true. 
Others  in  the  rear  may  lead  them, 

We  have  something  yet  to  do. 
Through  the  wounded,  through  the  dying, 

Clear  the  press,  and  stem  the  rout. 
In  that  stream  a  comrade's  lying, 

We  must  have  him  out !  " 

Chargers  bold,  and  riders  bolder, 

None  dare  stem  that  torrent's  force, 
Breaking  over  girth  and  shoulder, 

Sweeping  downward  man  and  horse. 
In  its  bend  the  stream  runs  deeper, 

Foes  about  him,  friends  afar, 
Sheltering  where  the  bank  is  steeper. 

Clings  the  maimed  Hussar. 

Off  with  buckle,  belt,  and  sabre  ! 

Heedless  of  a  crippled  limb. 
Scorning  peril,  stripped  for  labour. 


38  THE  VICTORIA  CROSS 

In  he  dashes,  sink  or  swim  ; 
Now  he's  whirling  round  the  eddy, 

Now  he  battles  in  its  roar, 
Now  with  lengthened  stroke,  and  steady, 

Nears  the  other  shore. 

Dusky  faces  peering  grimmer, 

Fiery  flashes  from  the  wood, 
Watery  flashes  round  the  swimmer 

Where  the  bullet  rips  the  flood  ; 
Now  to  reach  him,  foothold  gaining ! 

Now  to  drag  him  safely  back. 
Through  an  angry  volley,  raining 

Death  along  the  track  ! 

Dusky  faces  blankly  staring 

On  a  prey  thus  lost  and  won  ; 
Muttered  curses,  fiercely  swearing, 

"  Allah  !  Allah  !  bravely  done !  " 
While  the  hero,  like  a  galley 

Nobly  freighted,  stems  the  tide, 
While  a  score  of  troopers  rally 

On  the  hither  side. 

Tramp  of  horse  and  death-shot  pealing, 
Wolfish  howl,  and  British  cheer. 


THE  VICTORIA  CROSS  39 

Cannot  drown  the  whisper,  stealing 

Grateful  on  the  rescuer's  ear. 
"  Wounded,  helpless,  sick,  dismounted, 

Charlie  Fraser,  well  I  knew, 
Come  the  worst,  I  might  have  counted 

Faithfully  on  you  !  " 

Thus  the  double  danger  spurned  he, 

Bold  to  slay  and  bold  to  save. 
Thus  the  meed  of  honour  earned  he. 

Doubled  for  the  doubly  brave. 
Badge  of  succour,  badge  of  daring. 

Gold  and  bronze,  by  which  'tis  dross, 
Next  the  swimmer's  medal,  wearing 

His  Victoria  Cross ! 


" BOOTS  AND  SADDLES  " 

THE  ring  of  a  bridle,  the  stamp  of  a  hoof, 
Stars  above,  and  a  wind  in  the  tree, 
A  bush  for  a  billet,  a  rock  for  a  roof, 

Outpost  duty's  the  duty  for  me ! 
Listen !  a  stir  in  the  valley  below, 

The  valley  below  is  with  riflemen  crammed. 
Covering  the  column,  and  watching  the  foe, 

Trumpet-major  !  sound  and  be  d — d ! 
Stand  to  your  horses  !    It's  time  to  begin, 
Boots  and  saddles !  the  pickets  are  in  ! 

Though  our  bivouac  fire  has  smouldered 
away, 
Yet  a  bit  of  good  baccy  can  comfort  us  well. 
When  you  sleep  in  your  cloak  there's  no 
lodging  to  pay, 
And  where  we  shall  breakfast  the  devil 
can  tell. 
But  the  horses  were  fed  ere  the  daylight 
had  gone. 
There's  a  slice  in  the  embers,  a  drop  in  the 
can. 
Take  a  suck  at  it,  comrade,  and  so  pass  it  on, 
For  a  ration  of  brandy  puts  heart  in  a 
man. 


< 

o  , 

Z     i: 

O     o 


o 

o 


«  i 

D 
05 


"BOOTS  AND  SADDLES"  41 

Good  liquor  is  scarce,  and  to  waste  it  a  sin, 
Boots  and  saddles  !  the  pickets  are  in  ! 

Hark  !  there's  a  shot  from  the  crest  of  the 
hill! 
Look !  there's  a  rocket  leaps  high  in  the 
air! 
By  the  beat  of  his  gallop  that's  nearing  us 
still, 
That  runaway  horse  has  no  rider,  I'll 
swear ! 
There's  a  jolly  Light  Infantry  post  on  the 
right, 
I  hear  their  bugles,  they  sound  the  advance, 
Faith !  they'll  tip  us  a  tune  that  shall  wake 
up  the  night. 
And  we're  hardly  the  lads  to  leave  out  of 
the  dance. 
They're  at  it  already,  I  hear  by  the  din, 
Boots  and  saddles !  the  pickets  are  in  ! 

They  don't  give  us  long  our  divisions  to  prove, 

Short,  sharp,  and  distinct  comes  the  word 

of  command, 

"  Have  your  men  in  the  saddle  !  be  ready 

to  move, 
6 


42  "BOOTS  AND  SADDLES" 

Keep  the  squadron  together,  the  horses  in 

hand ! " 
While  a  whisper's  caught  up  through  the 

ranks  as  they  form, 
A  whisper  that  fain  would  break  out  in  a 

cheer, 
How  the  foe  is  in  force,  how  the  work  will 

be  warm  ; 
But  steady  !  the  chief  gallops  up  from  the 

rear. 
With  old  "  Death  or  glory  "  to  fight  is  to  win, 
And  the  colonel  means  mischief,  I  know  by 

his  grin. 
Boots  and  saddles  !  the  pickets  are  in. 
Boots  and  saddles  !  the  pickets  are  in  ! 


THE  FAIRIES'  SPRING 

THEY  have  stolen  the  child  from  his 
father's  hand, 
He  is  missed  from  his  mother's  knee, 
They  have  borne  him  away  to  their  elfin-land 
To  ride  in  the  van  of  a  fairy  band, 
For  a  babe  of  the  cross  was  he  ; 
Fond  father,  meek  mother,  ye  seek  him  in 

vain, 
Ye  never  shall  look  on  your  darling  again. 

To  the  mountain-side  where  the  flowers  grew 

wild, 
He  would  wander  forth  to  play. 
And  the  fairies  had  seen  that  winsome  child. 
With  his  golden  curls  and  blue  eyes  mild, 

And  simple  childish  way ; 
So  the  elf-king  caught  him,  "  Come  hither," 

said  he, 
"  Come  ride  to  the  land  of  the  fairies  with 

me!" 

He  thought  not  once  of  his  mother's  woe. 

He  forgot  his  father's  home, 
For  they  brought  him  a  steed  like  the  driven 
snow, 


44  THE  FAIRIES'  SPRING 

And  he  smiled  as  they  led  him  down  below, 

Through  middle  earth  to  roam ; 
And  they  showed  him  their  treasure  of  jewels 

and  gold, 
And  they  welcomed  the  boy,  for  they  loved 

him  of  old. 

But  the  child  soon  pined  for  his  mother's  care, 

He  pined  for  the  light  of  day. 
He  pined  for  the  freshness  of  upper  air. 
His  blue  eyes  ached  with  the  blinding  glare 

Of  their  cavern's  magic  ray  ; 
For  the  sign  of  the  cross  had  been  pressed 

on  his  brow, 
And  he  might  not  be  thrall  to  the  fairy  folk 
now. 

But  few  that  have  lived  with  the  elfin  race 

May  visit  this  earth  again  ; 
No  more  shall  he  smile  in  his  mother's  face, 
For  his  spirit  hath  flown  to  its  heavenly  place. 

With  the  fairies  it  might  not  remain  ; 
Though  deeply  they  loved  him,  and  hopeless, 

and  wild. 
Was  the  elfin's  grief  for  the  Christian  child. 


THE  FAIRIES'  SPRING  45 

They  buried  him  down  in  a  cavern  lone, 
Deep,  deep  in  the  mountain's  womb. 

And  their  tears  welled  up  through  the  hard 
grey  stone. 

To  the  turf  above,  as  they  made  their  moan 
O'er  the  infant's  early  tomb  ; 

And  sweet  to  the  thirsting  lips  of  men 

Is  the  spring  of  tears  in  the  fairies'  glen. 


«  POT-POURRI " 

I  SPIED  a  sweet  moss-rose  my  garden 
adorning, 
With  a  blush  at  her  core  like  the  pink  of  a 
shell, 
And  I  wrung  from  her  petals  the  dew-drop 
of  morning. 
And  gathered  her  gently  and  tended  her 
well  ; 
For  the  bee  and  the  butterfly  round  her  were 
humming, 
To  whisper  their  flattering  love-tale  and  fly. 
And  too  surely  I  knew  that  the  season  was 
coming 
When  the  flower  must  fade  and  the  insect 
must  die. 


So  deep  in  the  shade  of  my  chamber  I 
brought  her, 
And  sheltered  her  safe  from  the  wind  and 
the  sun. 
And  cared  for  her  kindly,  and  dipped  her  in 
water. 
And  vowed  to  preserve  her  when  summer 
was  done. 


«  POT-POURRI  "  47 

Though  dark  was  my  dwelling,  this  darling 
of  Flora, 
This  spirit  of  beauty  enlivened  the  gloom  ; 
Was  it  strange,  was  it  wrong,  I  should  love 
and  adore  her  ? 
Should  bathe  in  her  fragrance  and  bask  in 
her  bloom  ? 

But  long  ere  the  brightness  of  summer  was 
shaded, 
My  moss-rose  was  drooping  and  withering 
away, 
Her  perfume  had  perished,  her  freshness  had 
faded, 
The  very  condition  of  life  is  decay ; 
And  now  more  than  ever  I  cherish  and  prize  her. 
For  love  shall  not  falter,  though  beauty 
depart. 
And  dearer  to  me  that  the  others  despise  her, 
My  moss-rose  is  lying  crushed  home  to  my 
heart. 


A^ 


chastelAr 

S  an  upland  bare  and  sere 
In  the  waning  of  the  year, 
When  the  golden  drops  are  withered  off  the 
broom  ; 
As  a  picture  when  the  pride 
Of  its  colouring  hath  died, 
And  faded  like  a  phantom  into  gloom  ; 


As  a  night  without  a  star, 
Or  a  ship  without  a  spar. 
Or  a  mist  that  broods  and  gathers  on  the 
sea ; 
As  a  court  without  a  throne, 
Or  a  ring  without  a  stone. 
Seems  the  widowed  land  of  France,  bereft 
of  thee ! 


Our  darling  pearl  and  pride. 

Our  blossom  and  our  bride. 
Wilt  thou  never  gladden  eyes  of  ours  again  ? 

Would  the  waves  might  rise  and  drown 

Barren  Scotland  and  her  crown, 
So  thou  wert  back  with  us  in  fair  Touraine. 


A  DAY'S  RIDE,  A  LIFE'S  ROMANCE 
'The  pack  are  baying  fiercely  round  their  quarry" 


m 


^  ..MM-rik 


-*5=^  i?S 


CHASTELAR 

What  need  have  we  of  beacon  sheen 

To  warn  us  or  to  save, 
With  the  star-bright  eyes  of  our  lovely  queen 

Guiding  us  o'er  the  wave  ? 


What  need  have  we  of  a  following  tide, 
What  need  of  a  smiling  sky  ? 

'Tis  sunshine  ever  at  Mary's  side. 
And  summer  when  she  is  by. 

Her  glances,  like  the  day-god's  light, 
On  each  and  all  are  thrown  ; 

Like  him  she  shines,  impartial,  bright. 
Unrivalled,  and  alone. 

Alone  !  alone  !  an  ice-queen's  lot. 

Though  dazzling  on  a  throne  ; 

Ah  !  better  to  love  in  the  lowliest  cot 

Than  pine  in  a  palace,  alone. 
7 


^W^«»    \>  %  W 


CHASTELAR 

The  briorhtest  orems  in  heaven  that  o-low 

Shine  out  from  midmost  sky, 
The  whitest  pearls  of  the  sea  below 

In  its  lowest  caverns  lie. 
He  must  stretch  afar  who  would  reach  a  star, 

Dive  deep  for  the  pearl,  I  trow, 
And  the  fairest  rose  that  in  Scotland  blows 

Hangs  high  on  the  topmost  bough. 


The  stream  of  the  strath  runs  broad  and 
strong, 
But  sweeter  the  mountain-rill ; 


CH  ASTELAr  5 1 

And  those  who  would  drink  with  the  fairy- 
throng, 

Must  climb  to  the  crest  of  the  hill. 
For  the  moonlit  ring  of  the  elfin-king 

Is  danced  on  the  steepest  knowe, 
And  the  bonniest  rose  that  in  Scotland  blows, 

Hangs  high  on  the  topmost  bough. 

The  violet  peeps  from  its  sheltering  brake, 

The  lily  lies  low  on  the  lea, 
While  the  bloom  is  on  ye  may  touch  and  take, 

For  the  humble  are  frank  and  free ; 
But  the  garden's  pride  wears  a  thorn  at  her 
side, 

It  has  pricked  to  the  bone  ere  now ; 
And  the  noblest  rose  that  in  Scotland  blows 

Hangs  high  on  the  topmost  bough. 

'Twere  a  glorious  game  to  have  bartered  all 

For  the  bonniest  branch  in  the  bower. 
And  a  man  might  well  be  content  to  fall 

In  a  leap  for  its  queenliest  flower. 
To  win  her  indeed  were  too  princely  a  meed. 

To  serve  her  is  guerdon  enow, 
And  the  loveliest  rose  that  in  Scotland  blows. 

Hangs  high  on  the  topmost  bough. 


THE  MAIDEN'S  VOW 

A  WOMAN  may  better  her  word,  I  trow, 
Now  lithe  and  Hsten,  my  lords,  to  me, 

And  I'll  tell  ye  the  tale  of  the  Maiden's  Vow, 
And  the  roses  that  bloomed  on  the  bonny 
rose-tree. 

The  queen  of  the  cluster,  beyond  compare, 
Aloft  in  the  pride  of  her  majesty  hung ; 

Bright  and  beautiful,  fresh  and  fair. 

The  bevy  of  blossoms  around  her  clung. 


So  the  winds  came  wooing  from  east  and 
west, 


THE  MAIDEN'S  VOW  53 

Wooing  and  whispering,  frank  and  free  ; 
But  she  folded  her  petals,  quoth  she,  "  I  am 

best 
On  a  stalk  of  my  own,  at  the  top  of  the 

tree. 

And  they  folded  their  petals,  the  rosebud  too, 
And  closer  they  clung  as  the  wind  swept 
by; 

For  they  vowed  a  vow,  that  sisterhood  true, 
Together  to  fade,  and  together  to  die. 

"  Never  a  wind  shall  a  rosebud  wrest. 
Never  a  gallant  shall  wile  us  away, 

To  wear  in  his  bonnet,  to  wear  on  his  breast," 
Rose  and  rosebuds  answering,  "  Nay  !  " 

So  staunch  were  the  five  to  their  word  of 
mouth, 
They  baffled  the  suitors  that  thronged  to 
the  bower ; 
Till  a  breeze  came  murmuring  out  of  the 
south. 
And  stole  home  to  the  heart  of  the  queen- 
liest  flower. 


54 


THE  MAIDEN'S  VOW 


So  she  bent  her  beauty  to  hear  him  sigh, 
And  ever  the  brighter  and  fairer  she  grew ; 

What  wonder  then  that  each  rosebud  nigh 
Should  open  its  leaves  to  the  breezes  too  ? 

Oh  gather  the  dew  while  the  freshness  is  on, 

Roses  and  maidens  they  fade  in  a  day  ; 
Ere  you've  tasted  the  sweetness  the  morning 
is  gone. 
Love  at  your  leisure,  but  wed  while  you 
may. 

Winter  is  coming,  and  time  shall  not  spare  ye, 
Beautiful  blossom,  so  fragrant  and  sheen ; 

Joy  to  the  gallants  that  win  ye  and  wear  ye, 
Joy  to  the  roses,  and  joy  to  their  queen  ! 


FAREWELL 

Farewell!  farewell !    How  soon  'tis  said, 

The  wind  is  off  the  bay, 
The  sweeps  are  out,  the  sail  is  spread, 

The  galley  gathers  way. 

Farewell !  farewell !    The  words  are  light! 

Yet  how  can  words  say  more  ? 
Sad  hearts  are  on  the  sea  to-night, 

And  sadder  on  the  shore. 


Farewell !  farewell !    Perhaps  it  screens 

Thy  triumph  to  be  free  ; 
Farewell !  farewell !    Perhaps  it  means 

An  end  of  all  for  me  ! 


THE  FAIREST  FLOWER 

THE  painted  pinks  are  gay  and  glad, 
The  rose  is  blushing  red, 
The  lady-lily,  pale  and  sad. 

Hangs  meekly  down  her  head  ; 
A  carpet  rich  in  countless  dyes, 

Marred  by  a  single  blot, 
For  seeking  still  the  flower  I  prize. 
Meets  but  to  mock  my  weary  eyes, 
The  blank  where  she  is  not ! 


A  golden  insect  hums  aloft, 

Nor  pauses  in  its  quest  ; 
A  wind  steals  in,  and  whispers  soft 

Of  summers  in  the  west ; 
They  search  the  garden  through  and  through, 

They  try  each  wealthy  plot, 
The  bee  to  wed,  the  breeze  to  woo. 
That  missing  flower,  and  only  sue 

The  blank  where  she  is  not ! 

And  here  and  there,  now  low,  now  high. 

In  many  a  darting  ring, 
There  shoots  a  shade  across  the  sky, 

The  wild  bird  on  the  wing ; 


A  DAY'S  RIDE,  A  LIFE'S  ROMANCE 
"Every  sweet  must  have  its  bitter  ! 


THE  FAIREST  FLOWER 

The  wild  bird  hurries  to  and  fro 
About  each  well-known  spot, 
That  breathed  her  fragrance  long  ago, 
That  hath  not  kept  one  leaf  to  show 
The  blank  where  she  is  not ! 


57 


I,  too,  must  wander  lonely  round 

An  unfrequented  bower, 
And  mourn  through  all  the  garden  ground, 

My  early  withered  flower  ; 
My  hopes  that  foundered,  freight  and  bark, 

My  changed  and  cheerless  lot. 
For  still  my  life  is  cold  and  dark, 
And  still  my  heart  is  sad  to  mark 

The  blank  where  she  is  not ! 


c   .  D 


HERO  AND  LEANDER 

Bare  was  the  shapely  form  of  Hero's  love, 

Such  form  as  woke  to  life  the  sculptor's  art ; 
Black  was  the  wave  and  wild  the  heaven 
above, 
And  chill  the  fears  that  curdled  round  her 
heart. 

As  Hero  restless  turned,  and  rose  to  trim 
The  friendly  radiance  of  that  flickering 
light, 
And  still  she  sighed  and  trembled  still  for 
him. 
Far  on  the  deep  beneath  the  brooding 
night. 

"  Yet  not  so  far  for  him,  the  stronof,  the 
brave. 
Whose  glad  embrace  nor  time  nor  tide 
can  bar. 


HERO  AND  LEANDER  59 

Who  boasts  his  mastery  o'er  the  leaping  wave, 
Stout  loving  heart!    'Tis  surely  not  so  far!" 

With  that  she  summoned  courage,  and  the 
flame 
She  fed  afresh,  then  turned  her  to  the 
door, 
And  starting  smiled — and  blushed  for  very 
shame, 
A  blush  that  left  her  paler  than  before. 

For  no  one  entered — and  the  marble  stair 
Showed  wide  and  cheerless  in  her  lonely 
tower, 
And  something  whispered,  "Can  another  fair 
Have  lured  my  false  Leander  to  her 
bower  ? " 

Ungenerous  thought !    "  Why  tarrieth  he  so 
long  ? " 
Ungenerous  thought !  half  stifled  ere  it 
grew ; 
The  gathering  waves,  the  current  deep  and 
strong, 
The  swimmer's  gasping  need,  too  well  she 
knew. 


6o  HERO  AND  LEANDER 

And  he  was  battling  on  the  while  as  still 
Battles  the  loving  heart,  though  storms 
arise, 
The  loving  heart,  that  strives  through  good 
and  ill, 
And  though  it  fail  at  last,  unconquered  dies. 

When  first  he  plunged  to  meet  the  opposing 
wave. 
How  comely  was  that  shape,  so  fresh  and 
bright ! 
With  vigorous  strokes,  its  sidelong  way  that 
clave, 
Exulting,  godlike,  in  its  youthful  might. 

The  moon  shone  fitful  down  in  shimmering 
line ; 
Her  own  Endymion  was  not  half  so  fair 
As  he  who  laughed  aloud  to  lip  the  brine, 
And  shake  the  sea-drops  from  his  glisten- 
ing hair. 

Sweet  was  the  Siren's  voice,  yet  all  in  vain, 
To  lure  him  back  she  smote  her  sounding 
shell ; 


HERO  AND  LEANDER  6i 

And  wreathed  her  snowy  arms — unheard 
the  strain, 
Unseen  the  gesture,  and  unfelt  the  spell. 

For  Hero's  glimmering  beacon  shone  to 
guide, 
And  Hero's  voice  seemed  murmuring  in 
his  ear ; 
Though  long  the  watery  way,  and  fierce  the 
tide, 
Ere  breath  and  sinew  failed,  the  goal  was 
near. 

But  still  the  wind  was  freshening,  and  the 
deep 
Swelled  up  in  whiter  surges,  broad  and 
high; 
And  what  could  strength  'gainst  that  resist- 
less sweep. 
And  what  was  courage  good  for,  but  to  die  ? 

Thrice  did  the  choking  waters  o'er  him  close, 
Athwart  the  moon,  a  driving  cloud  sped  on. 

Ere  it  had  passed,  a  score  of  bubbles  rose 
To  spot  the  wrinkled  wave — and  he  was 
gone. 


62  HERO  AND  LEANDER 

So  Hero  woke,  and  watched,  and  whiter  grew, 
The  beacon  fire  died  out  as  day  drew  nigh ; 

And  on  the  woman's  cheek  a  paler  hue 

Showed  cold  and  sad  beneath  the  morning 
sky. 

The  dawn  flushed  up.    As  sinking  to  their 
sleep. 
In  longer  curve  the  waters  heaved  and 
rolled  ; 
While  o'er  the  sobs  of  a  relenting  deep. 
The  sunrise  drew  its  sheet  of  molten  gold 

Another  morn  its  shining  promise  gave, 
Another  day  of  Light  and  Life  in  store ; 

And  yet  a  corpse  was  on  the  dancing  wave, 
A  woman's  heart  was  breaking  on  the 
shore. 

She  saw  and  stretched  her  arms  ;  one  stifled 
moan, 
One  blinding  plunge,  she  reached  Leander's 
side ; 
Cold  was  her  darling's  sleep,  yet  not  alone, 
He  loved  and  battled,  she  but  loved  and 
died. 


HELP  AND  HOLD 

A    LEGEND    OF   THE    HOUSE    OF    ST.    CLAIR 

"Now  fie!  now  fie!"  quoth  Robert  the  king — 
And  the  red  blood  flew  to  his  brow, 

And  the  weight  of  his  hand  bade  the  beakers 
ring— 
"  I  am  ashamed  this  day,  I  trow  I 

"  In  stable  and  hall  I  have  steeds  and  men, 
I  have  hounds  both  staunch  and  free. 

But  the  white  faunch  deer  of  the  hawthorn 
glen 
Makes  light  of  my  woodcraft  and  me  ! 

"And  I  vow  to  St.  Hubert  as  I  sit  here. 
To  St.  Andrew,  St.  Rule,  and  St.  Bride, 

Till  I've  sounded  '  the  mort '  o'er  the  white 
faunch  deer, 
No  more  in  the  woodland  to  ride ! " 


64  HELP  AND  HOLD 

Then  up  and  spake  the  bold  St.  Clair, 
Was  drinking  the  red  wine  free, 

"  The  lands  of  thy  vassal  are  scant  and  bare, 
My  liege,  as  they  should  not  be. 

"  But  had  I  the  space  by  wood  and  wold 
To  breathe  them  a  summer's  day, 

I'd  ask  but  my  two  hounds.  Help  and  Hold, 
While  I  brought  the  white  deer  to  bay  !  " 

"  Ye  are  stout,"  quoth  the  King — "ye  are 
stout,  my  lord. 

As  behoves  a  St.  Clair  to  be. 
But  there's  many  a  brag  at  the  evening  board 

Winna  stand  in  the  morn  on  the  lea. 

"  The  lands  of  the  Strath,  both  far  and  near, 
Shall  be  yours  if  her  flight  ye  can  turn, 

And  bring  me  to  grips  with  the  white  faunch 
deer 
Ere  she  win  through  the  black  march  burn. 

"  But  a  man  may  not  take  if  he  dare  not  lose. 
And  the  venture  is  yet  to  be  said : 

Should  your  good  hounds  fail,  then  ye  shall 
not  choose. 
My  lord,  but  to  forfeit  your  head  !  " 


a, 
a, 

u 

w 


3 
O 


15 


a 

14 

a 


HELP  AND  HOLD  65 

"  A  waofer !  a  washer  !  "  cried  bold  St.  Clair  ; 

"  See,  bring  me  both  hound  and  horn ; 
Go  saddle  the  bonny  black  Barbary  mare, 

The  fleetest  that  feeds  on  corn. 

"  A  wager  !  a  wager  !  on  Help  and  Hold  ! 

Was  never  a  lord  of  my  line 
But  would  wager  his  life  against  lands  and 
gold; 

My  liege,  the  broad  Strath  shall  be  mine!" 

•  •  •  •  •  • 

They  saddled  their  steeds  at  mirk  o'  night, 

They  mounted  when  dawn  was  near, 
And  they  slipped  the  good  hounds  with  the 
dim  grey  light. 

On  the  track  of  the  white  faunch  deer. 

The  white  faunch  deer  like  an  arrow  flew, 
The  good  hounds  followed  fast ; 

I  trow  they  drove  her  from  slot  to  view. 
Ere  noon  was  fairly  past. 

Still  first  in  the  chase  rode  bold  St.  Clair, 
The  Bruce  spurred  hard  in  his  track, 

And  the  foam  stood  white  on  the  Barbary 
mare, 
And  the  King's  bonny  bay  grew  slack. 


66  HELP  AND  HOLD 

"  She  fails,"  quoth  St.  Clair,  "and  the  good 
hounds  gain, 

St.  Katherine  speed  their  flight ! 
Now  cote^  her  !  and  turn  her  across  the  plain, 

For  the  black  march  burn  is  in  sight ! 

The  black  march  burn  falls  steep  at  the  bank, 
To  the  pitch  of  a  horseman's  chin, 

But  Hold's  grey  muzzle  is  hot  on  her  flank. 
And  the  white  faunch  deer  leaps  in. 

Light  down  !  light  down  !  thou  St.  Clair 
bold! 
Or  never  go  hunting  more. 
Now  have  at  her,  Help  !  now  hang  to  her, 
Hold! 
And  they  turn  her  back  to  the  shore. 

The  King's  bonny  bay  a  good  bow-shot  mark 
Stopped  short  of  the  Barbary  mare, 

And  the  hounds  stood  grim  and  the  deer 
lay  stark 
At  the  feet  of  bold  St.  Clair. 

1  "  Cote,"  a  term  of  chase  meaning  to  be  alongside  ;  from 
the  French  cote — cotoyer. 


HELP  AND  HOLD  6^ 

"  My  liege !  my  liege !  will  ye  take  the  knife?" 

The  St.  Clair  bent  his  knee  ; 
"  By  St.  Katherine's  aid,  both  lands  and  life 

Have  my  good  hounds  won  for  me. 

"And  I  vow  to  St.  Katherine  I'll  build  a 
shrine 
In  'the  Hopes'^  by  the  western  wave, 
And  I  vow  to  St.  Hubert  these  hounds  of 
mine 
Shall  be  carven  in  stone  on  my  grave ! " 

The  bold  St.  Clair  he  sleeps  in  Spain,^ 
For  with  good  Lord  James  he  had  part, 

When  they  hewed  a  red  path  through  a  host 
of  slain. 
To  follow  the  Bruce's  heart. 

But  Help  and  Hold,  as  I've  been  told. 
May  be  seen  in  St.  Katherine's  chapelle  ; 

And  scion  and  heir  of  the  house  of  St.  Clair 
Still  love  a  good  hound  well. 

^  The  chapel  of  St.  Katherine-in-the-Hopes,  built  by  Sir 
William  St.  Clair,  early  in  the  fourteenth  century. 

2  This  Sir  William  was  slain  by  the  Moors  in  Spain,  while 
accompanying  the  heart  of  Robert  Bruce  to  the  Holy  Land. 


ALICE  OF  ORMSKIRK 

Days  and  months  drag  wearily  by, 

Scenes  and  shadows,  they  haunt  me  still, 

The  starlit  stream  and  the  wintry  sky, 

And  the  day  dying  out  on  the  crest  of  the 
hill. 


And  the  lights  astir  in  the  town  below, 
There  lived  Alice,  the  frank  and  free ; 

Many  a  flower  could  Ormskirk  show, 
Alice  alone  looked  kindly  on  me. 

She  could  whisper,  and  smile,  and  sigh, 
Pleading,  flattering,  so  can  the  rest ; 


ALICE  OF  ORMSKIRK  69 

But  oh  !  the  light  in  her  roving  eye 
Would  have  wiled  the  babe  from  its 
mother's  breast. 

I  freighted  my  bark  with  the  rich  and  rare, 
Alice  of  Ormskirk  !  all  for  thee, 

Little  I  reckoned  of  cost  or  care, 

But  I  launched  her  out  on  a  summer  sea. 

A  summer  sea,  and  a  smiling  sky, 
Never  a  ripple,  and  never  a  frown, 

Never  a  token  of  shipwreck  nigh. 

What  did  it  matter  ?   The  bark  went  down. 

For  though  I  was  rugged,  and  wild,  and  free, 
I  had  a  heart  like  another  man  ; 

And  oh!  had  I  known  how  the  end  would  be, 
I  would  it  had  broke  ere  the  play  began. 

I  would  it  had  broke  ere  I  sued  in  vain, 
Ere  Alice  grew  cold  and  cruel  to  me  ; 

But  though  I  was  dizzy  and  sick  with  pain, 
I  turned  from  her  bower  as  haughty  as  she. 

Alice  of  Ormskirk  !  could  ye  not  spare  ? 
Never  I  bore  ye  a  thought  of  ill ; 


70  ALICE  OF  ORMSKIRK 

Alice  of  Ormskirk,  false  and  fair  ! 

You  have  darkened  my  life !    Must  I  love 
you  still  ? 

Oh  !  better  for  me  that  a  blind-born  child, 
Never  a  line  I  had  learned  to  trace, 

Than  thus  by  a  look  and  a  laugh  beguiled, 
To  have  read  my  doqm  in  fair  Alice's  face. 

And  better  for  me  to  have  made  my  bed 
Under  the  yews  where  my  fathers  sleep, 

Calm  and  weary,  at  rest  with  the  dead, 
Than  have  given  my  heart  to  fair  Alice 
to  keep. 

Night  by  night  must  I  pace  the  shore, 

Longing,  lingering  to  and  fro. 
Questioning,  "  May  I  not  see  her  once 
more  r 

Alice  of  Ormskirk  answering  "  No  !  " 

And  still  the  echoing  sea-cave  rings 
Its  one  unceasing  pitiless  strain, 

And  still  the  wild  wave  dashes  and  sings, 
"  Never  again  love — never  again  !  " 


GRISELDA 

For  though  her  smile  was  sad  and  faint, 

And  though  her  voice  was  low, 
She  never  murmured  a  complaint, 

Nor  hinted  at  her  woe ; 
Nor  harboured  in  her  gentle  breast 

The  lightest  thought  of  ill, 
Giving  all — forgiving  all, 

Pure  and  perfect  still. 

Confiding  when  the  world  was  hard. 

And  kind  when  it  was  cold, 
What  wealth  of  love  was  stored  and  barred 

Within  that  heart  of  gold  ! 


72  GRISELDA 

Exulting  every  grief  to  share, 

And  every  task  fulfil ; 
Giving  all — forgiving  all, 

Fond  and  faithful  still. 

And  when  to  crush  that  patient  brow 

The  storm-cloud  broke  at  last. 
And  all  her  pride  was  shattered  now, 

And  all  her  power  was  past. 
She  meekly  kissed  the  hand  that  smote, 

And  yielded  to  its  will, 
Giving  all — forgiving  all. 

True  and  tender  still. 


■*   tK:'      '    -?7;'^Sv->'-S^?^~t-t>y^t»a'^»5 


IHE  CLIPPER 
"  I'd  the  be»t  of  them  all  when  we  came  to  the  brook  " 


IT  IS  NOT  GOOD  TO  BE  ALONE 


In  solitude  the  sparks  are  struck  that  bid  the 

world  admire, 
Though  heart  and  brain  must  scorch  the  while 

in  self-consuminof  fire. 
In  solitude  the  sufferer  smiles,  defiant  of  his 

doom. 
And  madness  sits  aloof,  and  waits,  and  gibbers 

in  the  gloom. 


10 


74     IT  IS  NOT  GOOD  TO  BE  ALONE 

'Tis  dazzling  work  to  weave  at  will  from 

fancy's  brightest  dyes, 
And  speed  the  task,  ungrudging  all,  we  have, 

and  hope,  and  prize. 
But  it  must  make  the  devils  laugh,  to  mark 

how,  day  by  day. 
The  plague-spot  widens  out  and  spreads,  and 

eats  the  web  away. 
In  vain  the  unwilling  rebel  writhes,  so  loth 

defeat  to  own. 
Turns  from  the  day,  and  scorns  to  pray,  and 

couches  down  alone. 
Oh  !  better  far  to  wail  aloud,  on  earth  and 

heaven  to  cry, 
Than,  like  the  panther  in  its  lair,  to  gnash 

his  teeth  and  die. 
Then  help  me,  brother,  help  me !    For  thy 

heart  is  made  like  mine. 
The  shaft  that  drains  my  life  away  is  haply 

winged  for  thine. 
It  is  not  good  to  stand  alone  the  common 

cross  to  bear. 
But  two  or  three  like  one  must  be,  and  God 

shall  hear  their  prayer. 


THE  BONNY  BREAST-KNOTS 


My  first  is  for  my  darling's  head, 

My  second  for  her  hair, 
My  whole,  in  loops  of  white  and  red, 

I  bring  her  from  the  fair ; 
She  loves  it  better  sung  than  said. 

That  bonny  Scottish  air. 


>Wa    x^ 


-r    c   D 


R.  I.  P. 

Rest  thee,  proud  peerless  face  ! 

Rest  thee,  fair  head  ! 
There,  in  that  other  place. 
Wearing  each  living  trace. 
Beauty,  and  scornful  grace, 

Peace  to  the  dead ! 


Rest  thee,  fond  wilful  heart 

Where  thou  art  fled ; 
Clear  of  the  strife  thou  art 
Ours  is  the  living  smart, 
Thine  is  the  better  part. 
Peace  to  the  dead  ! 


R.  I.  P. 

Rest  thee,  beloved  one  ! 

Well  hast  thou  sped  ! 
Sand  of  thy  glass  is  run, 
Trouble  and  toil  are  done, 
Sorrow  to  vex  thee  none. 

Peace  to  the  dead  ! 

Rest,  where  we  lay  thee  deep 

In  thy  lone  bed  ; 
Tears  never  more  to  weep, 
Vigil  nor  ward  to  keep, 
Folded  at  last  to  sleep, 

Peace  to  the  dead ! 


n 


LOST 


'TwAS  yet  but  May,  and  here  and  there, 

Pink  and  white  the  blossoms  fell, 
Quivering  down  through  the  summer  air, 
On  the  shaven  sward  so  trim  and  bare. 

Oh  !   I  remember  well 
The  very  network  of  the  tree. 
And  its  shadows  dancino-  on  her  and  me. 
My  old  love,  in  the  garden  chair, 

Looking  upward  soft  and  shy, 
With  her  oval  face  and  her  rippling  hair, 
And  the  rich  white  dress  she  used  to  wear. 

And  her  work  laid  idly  by. 
'Tis  strange  to  think  of  now,  and  yet 
Twere  stranger,  harder,  to  forget. 


LOST  79 

Her  eyes  were  deep  with  the  light  of  love, 

And  on  her  hands,  and  on  her  face, 
Because  the  south  wind  laughed  above, 

The  blossoms  showered  apace. 
She  chid  me  gently,  fondly,  when 

Those  blossoms  to  my  lips  I  pressed ; 
But  smiled  her  own  dear  smile,  and  then 

I  laid  them  in  my  breast. 
My  old  love  spoke,  the  words  she  said, 

I  think  she  could  not  deem  them  true : 
"  The  time  shall  come  when  these  are 
dead, 

Our  love  shall  wither  too  !  " 
I  held  my  peace,  I  bowed  my  head, 

Ah !  not  for  me,  I  knew. 
At  last  I  whispered,  "  Say  not  so. 

My  darling,  we  are  brave  and  strong  ; 
And  love  so  linked  as  ours,  you  know. 

Can  strive  and  suffer  long. 
Its  web  may  well  be  warped  with  woe, 

But  never  crossed  with  wrongs !  " 


She  plied  her  work,  beneath  its  modest  bands 
Her  face  was  hidden  in  her  fragrant  hair, 


8o  LOST 

The  tears  were  falling  on  her  busy  hands, 
And  thus  we  parted  there. 

The  blue  sea  sparkles  in  the  noontide  ray, 

The  eastern  sun  is  flashing  fiercely  down, 
Here  watch  the  hosts,  and  yonder,  in  the  bay, 

Lies  the  beleaguered  town. 
Hark!  the  alarum  sounds — the  French  rappel 

Collects  its  eager  crowd  the  trench  to  fill, 
Our  drums  are  beating  and  our  trumpets  swell, 

The  thin  red  line  is  mustering  on  the  hill. 
White  tents  in  thousands  dot  the  wasted  plain. 

The  canvas  city,  swarming  like  a  fair. 
Wakes  up  to  life,  while  hungering  for  the 
slain, 

A  vulture  hangs  expectant  in  the  air ! 
But  laugh,  and  jest,  and  ready  cheer. 

And  cordial  gripe  of  hand  in  hand, 
Would  make  the  game  of  death  appear 
But  some  athletic  pastime  here. 

In  this  Crimean  land. 

"  Fall  in ! "  the  way  they  know  too  well, 
The  valley  paved  with  shot  and  shell. 
Accursed  as  the  road  to  hell, 

That  none  may  travel  back. 


A  CATASTROPHE 


LOST  8 1 

"  Fall  in  !  attention  !  steady  !  "  so 
The  sergeants  hurry  to  and  fro, 
The  ranks  are  closed,  the  columns  grow, 
And  winding  downwards  sure  and  slow, 

File  off  to  the  attack. 
While  booming  out  above  their  measured 
tread. 

That  dull  explosion  loads  the  summer  air ; 
It  seems  a  requiem  for  the  noble  dead, 

A  knell  that  bids  the  living  brave  despair. 
It  ceaseth  not — no  respite  even  when 

The  daylight  round  of  blood  and  strife  is 
gone, 
The  hours  come  back,  again,  and  yet  again, 

And  ever  and  anon 
The  death-watch  of  a  hundred  thousand  men 

Ticks  on — ticks  on  ! 
Through  all  the  day — through  all  the  night — 

The  pale  moon  rises  from  the  sea. 
And  sheds  a  wan  and  ghostly  light 

On  him  and  me. 

For  I  was  lying  in  the  trench  we  made, 

Wrapped  in  my  cloak  and  belted  with  my  blade, 

A  shattered  gabion  o'er  my  slumbers  hung, 

And  down  beside  me  was  my  comrade  flung. 
iz 


8  2  LOST 

My  comrade  of  a  night,  'twas  strange  how  deep, 
How  calm  and  moveless  seemed  that  solemn 

sleep. 
Beneath  his  hand  his  ready  firelock  lay, 
His  coarse  red  garb  denoted  common  clay  ; 
A  peasant's  birth  his  homely  form  betrayed, 
A  peasant's  peaceful  lot,  ere  yet  he  made 
His  fatal  choice — the  bayonet  for  the  spade. 
I  heard  the  mattock  clink,  the  earthwork  fall. 
And  yet  my  comrade  slumbered  through  it  all. 
But  hark !  as  if  to  break  the  spell. 
The  rush  and  whistle  of  a  shell 

Divides  the  midnio;ht  air. 
The  tools  are  dropped,  the  muskets  ring, 
Afoot  recumbent  figures  spring, 
From  lip  to  lip  the  word  they  fling. 

An  oath,  a  jest,  a  prayer. 
"  Stand  to  your  arms,  my  lads  !  "  'tis  thus  we 

form 
The  living  rampart  it  is  death  to  storm. 

But  he  alone  seemed  not  to  hear, 
My  comrade  never  raised  his  head. 

I  bowed  me  down  to  scan  him  near. 
In  sorrow  rather  than  in  dread ; 


LOST  83 

The  moon  was  shining  cold  and  bright, 

My  living  instincts  told  me  right, 
His  face  was  fixed — his  face  was  white! 

Great  God  !  the  man  was  dead  ! 
One  stiffened  arm  was  upward  thrown,  and 

where, 
Beneath  the  toil-worn  hand  his  wrist  was  bare. 
Blue  on  the  surface  of  its  sallow  skin, 
A  heart,  a  woman's  name  was  punctured  in. 
By  Heaven !  'twas  no  unmanly  tear  I  shed, 
One  common  weakness  linked  me  with  the 

dead, 
That  moment,  like  a  flash  I  seemed  to  see 
My  love's  white  dress  beneath  the  summer  tree ; 
The  next,  with  steadier  pulse  and  calmer  breath, 
I  took  my  place  to  meet  or  baffle  death. 

"  Cheer,  boys,  cheer  !  " 

That  old  familiar  strain 
No  longer  mocked  the  listening  ear. 

Our  troops  were  home  again. 
An  English  sun  was  shining  bright. 

And  English  meadows  green  and  gold 
Were  all  a-glitter  in  the  light. 

How  could  she  look  so  calm  and  cold  ? 


84  LOST 

With  wealth  of  leaves  our  tree  was  fair, 
It  shaded  but  a  cheerless  pair  ; 

My  old  love's  face  was  pale  and  proud, 
And  I  was  all  unused  to  bear 
A  wounded  heart,  and  in  despair, 

My  sorrow  cried  aloud. 
"  Here,  take  them  back,  the  tress  of  hair, 

The  rose,  the  ring,  the  glove  ; 
My  pride  shall  never  stoop  to  wear 
For  emblems  but  of  friendly  care 

The  gifts  that  once  were  love. 
And  couldst  thou  judge  me  thus  unheard, 

Was  that  thy  faith,  is  this  my  due  ? 
Thouorh  thousands  backed  the  slanderous 
word, 

Thou  shouldst  have  known  me  true ! 
Yes,  take  them  back.    I'll  tell  thee  now. 

All  thou  hast  been  to  me. 
How  oft  to  death  I  bared  my  brow. 
How  pure  and  strict  I  kept  my  vow, 

And  all  for  love  of  thee  ! 
These  very  blossoms  in  my  breast, 

That  once  from  here  I  bore, 
Behold  them,  do  they  not  attest 

The  truth  of  him  who  served  thee  best } 


LOST  85 

Ay,  mark  them  !  "    Then  I  swore 

Her  name  from  out  my  heart  to  wrest, 
And  care  for  her  no  more. 
While  in  the  mockery  of  the  gaudy  day 
I  laughed,  and  flungthosewithered  leaves  away. 

She  kept  her  eyes  from  off  my  face, 
She  dared  not  trust  herself  to  look  ; 

But  stately,  in  her  native  grace, 
Though  once  I  thought  she  shook, 

With  calm,  defiant  courtesy,  bending  low, 

She  left  me,  answering  only  "  Be  it  so." 

•  •  ■  •  •  • 

My  old  lost  love. 

Once  more  I  stand  beneath  the  tree ; 
Through  branches  bleak  and  bare  above. 

The  wintry  wind  is  blowing  free. 
The  snow  lies  white  upon  the  wold. 

The  clouds  are  dark  behind  the  hill. 
Around  me  all  is  blank  and  cold ; 

My  heart  is  colder,  blanker  still. 
Ay,  mock  me  in  your  dreary  mirth. 

Ye  spectral  branches,  nod  and  wave. 
For  I  am  left  alone  on  earth. 

And  she  is  in  her  grave. 


S6  LOST 

No  more  to  ask,  and  plead,  and  vow, 

Too  late  for  pardon  or  amends, 
I'd  give  my  whole  existence  now 

We  two  had  only  parted  friends. 
It  seems  so  hard  to  think  for  us, 

Not  even  hope  can  soften  woe, 
'Tis  cruel  to  have  lost  her  thus, 

I  loved  her  so  !    I  loved  her  so  ! 
Not  even  hope,  yet  good  men  say, 

Hope  hath  no  home  beneath  the  sky, 
But  dwells  above,  and  only  they 

Know  how  to  live  who  live  to  die. 
It  must  be  so,  and  thus  I  bear 

My  stripes,  and  bow  me  to  the  rod. 
In  trust,  ere  long  to  follow  where 

My  darling's  feet  the  path  have  trod ; 
She  surely  will  forgive  me  there, 

When  we  have  met  before  our  God. 


VOID 


Gone  !  wholly  gone  !    How  cold  and  dark, 
A  cheerless  world  of  hope  bereft, 

The  beacon  quenched,  and  not  a  spark 
In  all  the  dull  grey  ashes  left. 

No  more,  no  more  a  living  part 
In  life's  contending  maze  to  own  ; 

Dead  to  its  kind,  an  empty  heart 
Feeds  on  itself,  alone  !  alone ! 

The  present  but  a  blank,  and  worse, 

No  ray  along  the  future  cast, 
All  blighted  by  the  blighting  curse, 

Except  the  past — except  the  past. 


88 


VOID 


Ay,  if  the  cup  be  crushed  and  spilt, 
More  than  the  sin,  the  loss  I  rue  ; 

And  if  the  cloud  was  black  with  guilt, 
The  silver  lig^ht  of  love  shone  throuofh. 

And  though  the  price  be  maddening  pain, 
One  half  their  raptures  to  restore, 

And  live  but  half  those  hours  again, 
I'd  pay  the  cruel  price  once  more. 

Dreams  !  dreams  !    Not  backward  flows  the 
tide 

Of  life  and  love.    It  cannot  be. 
Well !  thine  the  triumph  and  the  pride, 

The  suffering  and  the  shame  for  me.     • 


\\    I  "1.  N-«- 

\v4\  >^^  T    C    D  '  " 


1«,  tt).„ 


THE  WARD 
"  Now  loote  him,  row  lift  him,  your  soul  what  a  place  ! " 


LADY  MARGARET 

"And  grant  me  his  life,"  Lady  Margaret 
cried, 
"  Oh  !  grant  but  his  life  to  me, 
And  I'll  give  ye  my  gold  and  my  lands  so 
wide, 
An  ye  let  my  love  go  free. 


"  And  spare  me  his  life  !  "  Lady  Margaret 
prest, 
**  As  ye  hope  for  pardon  above, 
And  I'll  give  ye  the  heart  from  out  of  my 
breast 
For  the  life  of  my  own  true  love  !  " 

12 


90  LADY  MARGARET 

They  led  him  forth  to  the  silent  square, 
In  the  grey  of  the  morning  sky, 

And  they  gave  him  a  cup  of  the  red  wine 
there, 
To  drink,  and  then  to  die. 

Without  the  gate  Lady  Margaret  stood, 
And  she  watched  for  the  rising  sun, 

Till  it  blushed  on  the  stone- work  and  gleamed 
on  the  wood. 
And  the  headsman's  work  was  done. 

Not  a  limb  she  stirred  ;  but  when  noonday's 
glow 

Smote  down  on  her  temples  bare, 
A  fiercer  sun  had  not  melted  the  snow 

That  streaked  Lady  Margaret's  hair. 


T   .   C    .  D 


TRUE  METAL 

For  this  is  love,  and  this  alone, 

Not  counting  cost  nor  grudging  gain, 

That  builds  its  life  into  a  throne. 
And  bids  the  idol  reign. 

That  hopes  and  fears,  yet  seldom  pleads. 

And  for  a  sorrow  weakly  borne 
(Because  it  yields  not  words  but  deeds). 

Can  hide  a  gentle  scorn. 

In  pride  and  pique  that  takes  no  part, 
Of  self  and  sin,  that  bears  no  taint. 

The  homage  of  a  knightly  heart 
For  a  woman  and  a  saint. 

Such  love  will  wear  through  shine  and  shower, 
Such  love  can  bear  to  bide  its  time, 


92 


TRUE  METAL 

Unwearied  at  the  vesper  hour 
As  when  the  matins  chime. 

Though  hate  itself  be  fain  to  shrink, 
It  freely  ventures  lose  or  win ; 

And  friendship  shivers  on  the  brink, 
While  love  leaps  boldly  in. 

And  love  can  strive  against  a  host, 
Can  watch  and  wait,  and  suffer  long, 

Still  daring  more,  when  fearing  most, 
In  very  weakness  strong. 

Though  bruised  and  sore  it  never  dies, 
Though  faint  and  weary  standing  fast, 

It  never  fails.    And  thus  the  prize 
Is  won  by  love  at  last. 


THE  QUEEN  OF  THE  ROSES 

I  WATCHED  her  in  the  morning  hour, 

So  pure  and  fresh  and  fair, 
A  blossom  bursting  into  flower, 

That  gladdened  all  the  air. 

I  marked  her  shedding  sweets  around 

Beneath  the  noontide  ray, 
The  glory  of  the  garden-ground, 

The  pride  of  the  summer's  day. 

But  long  before  the  daylight's  close 

The  southern  blast  awoke. 
And  crushed  and  tore  the  queenly  rose 

Beneath  its  pelting  stroke. 

Alas  !  her  petals  strew  the  bower  ; 

Yet,  mangled  though  she  lie, 
The  fragrance  of  that  perished  flower 

Floats  upward  to  the  sky. 


ESPfiRANCE 

The  vines  are  thick,  the  clods  are  brown, 
Hard  is  the  toil,  thy  Lord's  behest, 

And  weak  the  arm,  though  girt  the  gown. 
And  faint  the  heart  within  thy  breast ; 

A  noonday  sun  pours  fiercely  down, 
My  Brother,  shall  we  rest  ? 

Strong  is  the  foe,  and  sharp  the  fray. 
With  shivered  lance  and  cloven  shield 

The  champions  fall,  the  ranks  give  way. 
Along  the  front,  across  the  field, 

The  stoutest  knights  are  down.    Then  say. 
My  Brother,  shall  we  yield  ? 


Forbid  it,  honour,  courage,  trust ! 

Forbid  it,  all  that's  brave  and  wise ! 
Toil  freely  on,  since  toil  you  must, 


ESPfiRANCE 

The  day  of  harvest  brings  the  prize  ; 
From  black  defeat,  and  crimsoned  dust, 
See  golden  victory  rise ! 


Peace  is  the  end  and  aim  of  strife, 

The  palms  of  Heaven  are  earned  below ; 

Earth's  vital  powers  are  rich  and  rife, 
Beneath  her  winding-sheet  of  snow  ; 

Death  is  itself  the  germ  of  life. 
And  joy  the  child  of  woe. 

Then  Espdrance !  hope  on,  the  fight 
Is  never  lost,  while  fight  we  may  ; 

At  home  the  hearth  is  shining  bright, 
Though  yet  unseen  along  the  way ; 

And  the  darkest  hour  of  all  the  night 
Is  that  which  brings  us  day. 


95 


"THERE  LEAVE  THY  GIFT 
UPON  THE  ALTAR" 

Once  in  the  promise  and  lustre  of  morning, 

Little  I  dreamt  that  defeat  would  be  mine, 
Panting  for  trial,  regardless  of  warning, 

Love  was  like  music,  and  life  was  like  wine. 
Now  that  the  doom  of  the  vanquished  is 
spoken, 
Now  that  the  sun  hath  gone  down  to  the 
sea. 
Now  that  the  heart  hath  been  trampled  and 
broken, 
God  of  the  helpless  !  I  bring  it  to  Thee. 

Earth  was  so  fair,  and  so  lavish  of  treasure, 
Nature  emblazoned  her  pages  in  gold  ; 


THE  WARD 
'•There's  no  time  to  look  back  in  a  run  with  the  ward" 


'* THERE  LEAVE  THY  GIFT"      97 

Vain  was  the  glitter,  illusive  the  pleasure, 
A  phantom  to  vanish,  a  tale  to  be  told. 

Here,  where  the  glory  of  summer  was  glowing, 
See,  the  dead  leaf  quivers  bare  on  the  tree, 

Blasts  of  a  desolate  winter  are  blowing, 
God  of  the  homeless  !  I  shelter  with  Thee. 


Gone  the  glad  hope  in  a  dawn  of  to-morrow. 

Faded,  forgotten,  the  noon  of  to-day. 
Night  drawing  closer  in  sadness  and  sorrow, 

Gloom  in  the  valley  and  ghosts  on  the  way ; 
All  the  bright  hours  of  the  past  I  can  reckon. 

Memories  of  anguish  bequeathing  to  me, 
Man  cannot  guide  me,  nor  angel  can  beckon, 

God  of  the  hopeless  !  whom  have  I  but 
Thee  ? 


A  DIRGE 

Hills  of  Heaven,  bright  and  shining, 

Bid  thee  welcome,  spirits  wait, 
Thronging  down  to  greet  thee,  twining 

Garlands  at  the  golden  gate  ; 
See !  before  thee  flash  and  quiver, 

Rising  in  eternal  light, 
Daybreak  on  the  crystal  river, 

And  behind  thee  night ! 
Earth  hath  been  wearing  thee,  now  it  is  past, 
Providence  sparing  thee, 
Mercy  preparing  thee, 
Angels  are  bearingf  thee  homeward  at  last ! 


A  DIRGE  99 

Quenched  the  bitter  taste  of  sorrow, 

Lulled  the  angry  throb  of  pain, 
Glad,  yet  fearless  of  the  morrow, 

Thine  the  bliss,  without  the  bane. 
Done  with  earthly  trouble,  taking 

Thought  no  more  for  earthly  care, 
Spent  with  earthly  travail,  waking 

For  its  wages  there  ! 
Earth  hath  been  wearing  thee,  now  it  is  past. 
Providence  sparing  thee, 
Mercy  preparing  thee. 
Angels  are  bearing  thee  homeward  at  last ! 

Songs  of  Heaven,  triumphant  singing. 

Rank  on  rank,  in  waves  of  light, 
March  the  immortal  legions,  bringing 

Crown  of  gold  and  robe  of  white  ; 
Far  above  them,  lustre  streaming 

Round  its  towers,  unbuilt  by  hands, 
Through  a  mist  of  glory  beaming. 

See,  the  city  stands  ! 
Earth  hath  been  wearing  thee,  now  it  is  past, 
Providence  sparing  thee, 
Mercy  preparing  thee. 
Angels  are  bearing  thee  homeward  at  last ! 


NIGHTFALL 

Like  a  dream  the  past  hath  fled, 
All  its  summer  glories  shed  ; 
Hope  hath  vanished,  love  is  dead ; 

Lonely  hours  are  mine  to  spend. 
Watching  ever,  watching  ever. 

Waiting  for  the  end. 

Though  with  promise  fair  and  bright, 

Morning  rose  in  golden  light. 

Ere  my  noon,  came  down  the  night ; 

Welcome  to  me  as  a  friend. 
Watching  ever,  watching  ever. 

Waiting  for  the  end. 

Sinking  with  the  cruel  load, 
Sore  and  smarting  to  the  goad. 
Weary,  weary  of  the  road  ; 

Heaven  to  me  thy  respite  send ! 
Watching  ever,  watching  ever, 

Waiting  for  the  end. 


EPHEMERAL 

IT  came  with  the  merry  May,  love, 
It  bloomed  with  the  summer  prime, 
In  a  dying  year's  decay,  love, 

It  brightened  the  fading  time ; 
I  thought  it  would  last  for  a  life,  love, 

But  it  went  with  the  winter  snow, 
Only  a  year  ago,  love, 
Only  a  year  ago  ! 

'Twas  a  plant  with  a  deeper  root,  love, 

Than  the  blighting  eastern  tree. 
For  it  grew  in  my  heart,  and  the  fruit, 
love. 

Was  a  bitter  morsel  to  me  ; 
The  poison  is  yet  in  my  brain,  love, 

The  thorn  in  my  breast,  for  you  know 
'Twas  only  a  year  ago,  love, 

Only  a  year  ago  ! 

It  never  can  bloom  any  more,  love, 
For  the  plough  hath  passed  over  the 
spot, 

And  the  furrow  hath  left  its  score,  love, 
In  the  place  where  the  flowers  are  not. 


I02 


EPHEMERAL 


'TIs  gone  like  a  tale  that  Is  told,  love, 
Like  a  dream  it  hath  fleeted,  although 

'Twas  only  a  year  ago,  love, 
Only  a  year  ago ! 


,  J\  \^  T     C    D 


III,  vu.„i 


COMMUNE  MALUM 

Few  the  days  so  dark  and  dreary, 

But  are  brightened  by  a  gleam, 
Seldom  night  so  long  and  weary. 

But  'tis  lightened  with  a  dream  ; 
So  the  fruit  that  never  ripens 

Blossomed  once  for  me, 
Far  away  in  bonny  Scotland, 

Down  by  the  sea. 


Pale  and  calm  the  wave  was  sleeping. 
Pale  and  soft  the  skies  above, 


I04  COMMUNE  MALUM 

All  was  peace,  and  all  in  keeping 
With  the  holy  hush  of  love  ; 

While  the  pearl  of  price  beside  me 
Promised  mine  to  be, 

Far  away  in  bonny  Scotland, 
Down  by  the  sea. 

Pearl  I  never  thought  could  fail  me, 

Jewel  of  my  darker  lot, 
How  shall  faith  and  truth  avail  me  ? 

All  dishonoured  and  forgot. 
Would  that  death  had  come  between  us, 

While  we  yet  were  free. 
Far  away  in  bonny  Scotland, 

Down  by  the  sea. 

Better  that  than  shame  and  sorrow. 

Trust  betrayed  and  spirit  strife. 
Longing  night  and  lonely  morrow. 

Are  not  these  but  death  in  life  ? 
All  the  heart  I  had  lies  buried. 

There  let  it  be  ! 
Far  away  in  bonny  Scotland, 

Down  by  the  sea. 


BOOTS  AND  SADDLES 
'That  runaway  horse  has  no  rider,  I'll  s-vvear 


VALERIA'S  DEATH  IN  THE 
COURT  OF  THE  TEMPLE 

VOL.    III.    OF    "the    gladiators" 

The  hand  I  love  hath  dealt  the  blow, 

It  is  not  hard  to  die  like  this ; 
I  never  thought  such  joy  to  know, 
That  these  poor  lips  to  thine  should  grow, 
And  all  my  soul  to  meet  thee  flow 

In  one  impassioned  parting  kiss. 

The  hand  I  love,  'tis  mine  at  last, 
I  press  it  to  my  sinking  breast ; 
The  tide  of  life  is  ebbing  fast. 
The  game  played  out,  the  lot  is  cast, 
The  day  gone  down,  the  journey  past, 
And  nightfall  brings  eternal  rest. 


io6 


VALERIA'S  DEATH 


The  hand  I  love,  'twas  hardly  won, 
Thou  canst  not  prize  it,  girl,  too  high ; 

'Tis  freely  given,  my  task  is  done. 

The  thread  of  fate  is  wound  and  spun, 

The  tempest  lulls  at  set  of  sun. 
And  I  can  lay  me  down  to  die. 

Dear  hand  I  love,  a  long  farewell ! 

Remorse  and  shame  I  scorn  to  own ; 
Though  hard  she  fought  and  low  she  fell, 
Pride  could  not  bid  her  love  rebel, 
And  now  her  dying  gasp  shall  tell, 

Valeria's  heart  was  thine  alone. 


THE  WHITE  WITCH 

Have  a  care  !  she  is  fair, 
The  White  Witch  there  ; 

In  her  crystal  cave  up  a  jewelled  stair  ; 
She  has  spells  for  the  living  would  waken  the 

dead, 
And  they  lurk  in  the  line  of  her  lip  so  red, 
And  they  lurk  in  the  turn  of  her  delicate  head, 

And  the  golden  gleam  on  her  hair. 

Forbear  !  have  a  care 
Of  that  beauty  so  rare  ; 

Of  the  pale  proud  face  and  the  queen-like  air. 
And  the  love-lighted  glances  that  deepen  and 

shine. 
And  the  coil  of  bright  tresses  that  glisten  and 

twine. 


io8  THE  WHITE  WITCH 

And  the  whispers  that  madden,  like  kisses  or 
wine, 
Too  late !  too  late  to  beware  ! 

Never  heed  !  never  spare  ! 
Never  fear !  never  care  ! 

It  is  sweeter  to  love,  it  is  wiser  to  dare! 
Lonely  and  longing,  and  looking  for  you. 
She  has  woven  the  meshes  you  cannot  break 

through  ; 
She  has  taken  your  heart,  you  may  follow  it 
too. 
Up  the  jewelled  stair,  good  luck  to  you 

there ! 
In  the  crystal  cave  with  the  witch  so  fair, 
The  White  Witch  fond  and  fair ! 


T         C        D 


FORGET  ME  NOT 

Forget  me  not,  though  I  repine 

Because  you've  found  a  fresher  heart, 

To  give  it  all  that  once  was  mine, 
I'll  say,  farewell,  and  part! 

Because  you've  found  a  fairer  face, 
A  nobler  name,  a  lovelier  lot, 

I'll  meekly  bow,  and  yield  my  place, 
But  oh  !  forget  me  not. 

For  all  the  world  you've  been  to  me. 
And  half  the  world  you  take  away  ; 

The  joy  of  summer  from  the  tree, 
The  glory  from  the  day. 


I  lO 


FORGET  ME  NOT 


To  leave  a  dead  year's  barren  curse, 
A  dead  leaf  whirling  on  the  lawn, 

A  soulless,  starless  night,  and  worse, 
A  hopeless,  helpless  dawn. 

Not  much  I  sought.    I  had  my  dream, 
Dear  love,  your  very  words  I  quote, 

**  A  rose,  the  ripple  of  a  stream, 
A  blue  sky  and  a  boat." 

But  roses  fade  as  roses  blow. 

And  summer  skies  can  lower  and  frown, 
The  stream  runs  deep  and  dark,  and  so 

This  boat  of  ours  went  down. 

Hard,  hard,  to  learn  the  common  task ! 

Hard,  hard,  to  bear  the  common  lot ! 
For  pity's  sake,  'tis  all  I  ask, 

Forget  me  not,  forget  me  not ! 


ON    A    SKETCH,    BY    AUGUSTUS 

LUMLEY,  ESQ.,  OF  A  CAVALIER'S 

WIDOW    LOOKING    AT    HER 

HUSBANDS    PORTRAIT 

SO  bright  a  gleam,  so  dear  a  dream, 
So  few  the  happy  years ! 
A  loving  past,  too  fair  to  last, 
And  nothing  left  but  tears. 

Melts  into  space,  thy  portrait's  grace, 

As  daylight  into  gloom, 
The  wreath  I  braid  must  droop  and  fade 

Ere  it  can  deck  thy  tomb. 

What  have  I  left,  of  thee  bereft  ? 

My  darling  bright  and  brave, 
But  long  lone  hours,  dead  hopes  and  flowers, 

A  picture  and  a  grave  ! 


"IMBUTA" 

THE  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 
It  tasteth  like  the  old. 
The  heart  is  all  athirst  again, 
The  drops  are  all  of  gold  ; 
We  thought  the  cup  was  broken. 

And  we  thought  the  tale  was  told, 
But  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 
It  tasteth  like  the  old! 


The  flower  of  life  had  faded, 

The  leaf  was  in  its  fall, 
The  winter  seemed  so  early 

To  have  reached  us,  once  for  all ; 
But  now  the  buds  are  breaking. 

There  is  grass  above  the  mould, 
And  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 

It  tasteth  like  the  old  ! 

The  earth  had  grown  so  dreary, 

The  sky  so  dull  and  grey. 
One  was  weeping  in  the  darkness. 

One  was  sorrowing  through  the  day ; 
But  a  light  from  heaven  gleams  again, 

On  water,  wood,  and  wold, 


HELP  AND  HOLD 
"The  black  march  bum  falli  itecp  at  the  bank" 


"IMBUTA"  113 

And  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 
It  tasteth  like  the  old ! 

For  the  loving  lips  are  laughing. 

And  the  loving  face  is  fair, 
Though  a  phantom  hand  is  on  the  board, 

And  phantom  eyes  are  there  ; 
The  phantom  eyes  are  soft  and  sad, 
.    The  phantom  hand  is  cold, 
But  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 

It  tasteth  like  the  old  ! 

We  dare  not  look,  we  turn  away. 

The  precious  draught  to  drain, 
'Twere  worse  than  madness,  surely  now, 

To  lose  it  all  again  ; 
To  quivering  lip,  with  clinging  grasp, 

The  fatal  cup  we  hold, 
For  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine, 

It  tasteth  like  the  old! 
And  life  is  short,  and  love  is  life, 

And  so  the  tale  is  told, 
Though  the  new  wine,  the  new  wine. 

It  tasteth  like  the  old. 
15 


"RIDING  THROUGH  THE 
BROOM" 


There's  music  in  the  gallery, 
There's  dancing  in  the  hall, 

And  the  girl  I  love  is  moving 
Like  a  goddess  through  the  ball. 

Amongst  a  score  of  rivals 

You're  the  fairest  in  the  room, 

But  I  like  you  better,  Marion, 
Marion,  Marion, 

I  like  you  better,  Marion, 

Riding  through  the  broom. 


RIDING  THROUGH  THE  BROOM   115 

It  was  but  yester  morning, 

The  vision  haunts  me  still, 
That  we  looked  across  the  valley, 

As  our  horses  rose  the  hill. 
And  I  bade  you  read  my  riddle, 

And  I  waited  for  my  doom, 
While  the  spell  was  on  us,  Marion, 

Marion,  Marion, 
The  spell  was  on  us,  Marion, 

Riding  through  the  broom. 

The  wild  bird  carolled  freely. 
The  May  was  dropping  dew. 

The  day  was  like  a  day  from  heaven, 
From  Heaven,  because  of  you  ; 

And  on  my  heart  there  broke  a  light, 
Dispelling  weeks  of  gloom, 

While  I  whispered  to  you,  Marion, 
Marion,  Marion, 

While  I  whispered  to  you,  Marion, 
Riding  through  the  broom  : 

"  What  is  freer  than  the  wild  bird  ? 

What  is  sweeter  than  the  May  ? 
What  is  fresher  than  the  morning, 

And  brighter  than  the  day  ?  " 


ii6  RIDING  THROUGH  THE  BROOM 

In  your  eye  came  deeper  lustre, 

On  your  cheek  a  softer  bloom, 
And  I  think  you  guessed  it,  Marion, 

Marion,  Marion, 
I  think  you  guessed  it,  Marion, 

Riding  through  the  broom. 

And  now  they  flutter  round  you. 

These  insects  of  an  hour. 
And  I  must  stand  aloof  and  wait, 

And  watch  my  cherished  flower ; 
I  glory  in  her  triumphs. 

And  I  grudge  not  her  perfume, 
But  I  love  you  best,  my  Marion, 

Marion,  Marion, 
I  love  you  best,  my  Marion, 

Riding-  through  the  broom. 


THE  PROUD  LADYE 


"  'Tis  a  cheerless  morn  for  a  gallant  to  swim, 

And  the  moat  shines  cold  and  clear, 
Sir  Knight,  I  was  never  yet  baulked  of  my 

whim, 
And  I  long  for  the  lilies  that  float  on  the 

brim, 
Go,  bring  me  those  blossoms  here  !  " 
Then  I  offered  them  low  on  my  bended  knee, 
"  They  are  faded  and  wet,"  quoth  the  Proud 

Ladye. 


ii8  THE  PROUD  LAD  YE 

A  jay  screamed  out  from  the  topmost  pine, 
That  waved  by  the  castle  wall, 

And  she  vowed  if  I  loved  her  I'd  never  de- 
cline 

To  harry  his  nest  for  this  mistress  of  mine, 
Though  I  broke  my  own  neck  in  the  fall  ; 

Then  I  brought  her  the  eggs  and  she  flouted 
me, 

"You  would  climb  too  high,"  said  the  Proud 
Ladye. 

The  lists  were  dressed  and  the  lances  in  rest, 

And  the  knightly  band  arrayed, 
'Twas  stout  Sir  Hubert  who  bore  him  best, 
With  a  queen's  white  glove  carried  high  on 
his  crest, 
Till  I  shore  it  away  with  my  blade. 
But  I  reeled  as  I  laid  it  before  her.    "  See, 
It  is  soiled  with  your  blood,"  said  the  Proud 
Ladye. 

"  You  have  sweet  red  lips,  and  an  ivory 
brow. 
But  your  heart  is  as  cold  as  a  stone. 
Though  I  loved  you  so  fondly  and  truly,  now 


THE  PROUD  LADYE 


119 


I  have  broken  my  fetters  and  cancelled  my 

vow, 
You  may  sigh  at  your  lattice  alone  ; 
There  are  women  as  fair  who  are  kinder  to 

me, 
Go  look  for  another,  my  Proud  Ladye  !  " 

Her  tears  fell  fast,  she  began  to  rue, 

When  she  counted  the  cost  of  her  pride. 
Till  she  played  and  lost  it  she  never  knew, 
The  worth  of  a  heart  that  was  loving  and 
true  ; 
And  she  beckoned  me  back  to  her  side. 
While  softly  she  whispered,  "  I  love  but 

thee ! " 
So  I  won  her  at  last,  my  Proud  Ladye. 


"  ^i^'jldS* 


"JOHN  ANDERSON" 


Thine  eyes  are  meeker,  sadder  now, 

Though  softly  still  they  shine, 
And  on  thy  staid  and  gentle  brow 

I  trace  the  thoughtful  line. 

Thy  voice  is  dearest  of  music  still. 

Though  its  tones  are  hushed  and  low  ; 

While  deep  to  my  heart  those  accents  thrill, 
As  they  thrilled  to  it  long  ago. 

And  here  and  there  a  silver  thread 

Amongst  thy  locks  I  spy. 
Where  the  hand  of  time  on  thy  dainty  head 

Hath  but  blessed  it,  and  so  passed  by. 


"JOHN  ANDERSON"  121 

For  the  golden  years  have  fled  to  the  past, 
And  indeed,  if  truth  must  be  told, 

While  the  wheel  spins  bravely,  the  flax  wears 
fast. 
And  love,  we  are  growing  old. 

We  are  orrowing:  old.    Oh  !  the  morn  was 
bright. 

And  rich  was  the  noontide  ray. 
But  the  sunset  hour  with  its  fading  light, 

Is  the  sweet  of  the  summer's  day. 

And  though  spring  be  so  fair,  with  her  laugh- 
ing eyes. 

Like  a  maid  in  her  early  bloom. 
There's  a  holier  calm  in  the  autumn  skies, 

When  the  harvest  is  gathered  home. 

And  a  task  is  in  store  for  the  mountain  rill. 
Though  its  youth  be  so  fresh  and  free, 

It  must  fatten  the  pasture,  and  feed  the  mill, 
Ere  it  steal  to  its  rest  in  the  sea. 

For  onward,  onward,  the  river  flows, 

And  widens  by  the  way — 

And  many  a  noble  reach  it  shows. 

And  many  a  sunlit  bay. 
16 


122  "JOHN  ANDERSON" 

Calmer,  and  broader,  and  seaward  still, 
Till  headland  and  cape  be  past  ; 

And  the  stream  that  was  once  but  a  trickling 
rill. 
Is  lost  in  the  deep  at  last. 

We  must  all  float  on  with  the  silent  stream, 

Float  out  to  the  silent  sea, 
Where  the  soul  wakes  up  from  a  restless 
dream, 

In  the  hush  of  eternity  ! 


T      C     D 


"SOUL  MUSIC" 


I  KNOW  I  have  heard  them  sing,  child,  and  I 

know  that  they  spoke  to  me, 
With  my  mother's  arms  about  me,  while  I  sat 

on  my  mother's  knee ; 
And  she  told  me  of  love  that  saved  us,  and  a 

Father  we  had  on  high, 
And  the  grave  that  we  need  not  fear,  child, 

and  the  soul  that  can  never  die. 
In  the  gleam  of  the  summer  lime-trees,  in  the 

glow  of  the  summer's  day, 
And  I  heard  them  singing  faintly  then,  for 

they  seemed  so  far  away. 


124  "SOUL  MUSIC" 

Again,  when  I  walked  with  the  loved  one ; 

you  remember  the  loved  one,  dear, 
And  the  smile  that  is  gone  from  among  us, 

and  the  voice  we  no  longer  hear, 
The  voice  was  so  tender  and  earnest,  that  joy 

was  too  deep  for  mirth. 
And  the  heart  was  too  full  for  speech,  child, 

and  heaven  had  come  down  on  earth. 
Not  a  drop  in  the  cup  seemed  wanting,  the 

thirst  of  a  life  to  fill, 
And  farther  and  fainter  the  song  died  out — 

but  I  heard  the  angels  still. 

Then  the  loved  one  was  taken  from  me,  and 

I  bowed  my  head  in  my  hand. 
For  my  bark  was  free  on  a  silent  sea,  and  I 

was  alone  on  the  strand  ; 
The  day  had  gone  down  for  me,  child,  the 

light  of  my  life  was  fled, 
And  I  longed  for  the  sleep  of  an  endless 

night,  and  to  lay  me  beside  the  dead. 
Then  I  clung  to  the  arm  that  smote  me,  with 

a  prayer  from  a  bended  knee. 
And  my  heart  climbed  up  to  meet  the  song — 

and  the  song  floated  down  to  me. 


"SOUL  MUSIC"  125 

I  have  heard  it  so  often  since,  child,  at  church 

on  the  holy  morn 
When  the  music  swells,  and  the  praise  goes 

up,  that  "to  us  a  Child  is  born." 
And  here  in  the  hush  of  my  home  life,  and 

there  where  the  little  ones  play. 
And  once  in  the  tremble  of  twilight  at  the  turn 

of  the  night  and  the  day  ; 
Each  time  they  sing  in  a  sweeter  strain,  they 

call  in  a  clearer  tone, 
And  I  look  for  the  Reaper  to  house  the  grain, 

and  the  Master  to  claim  His  own. 

I  think  it  will  not  be  long,  child,  they  are  bid- 
ding me  home  at  last. 

To  the  place  where  the  joy  of  the  future  shall 
be  linked  on  the  love  of  the  past — 

Where  the  houseless  shall  seek  a  shelter,  the 
lonely  shall  find  a  friend, 

Where  the  heart's  desire  shall  be  granted  that 
hath  trusted  and  loved  to  the  end ; 

Where  there's  fruit  in  the  gardens  of  heaven 
from  hopes  that  on  earth  were  betrayed, 

Where  there's  restfor  the  soul  life- wearied,  that 
hath  striven,  and  suffered,  and  prayed. 


MARY  HAMILTON 

There's  a  bonny  wild-rose  on  the  mountain 

side, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

In  the  glare  of  noon  she  hath  drooped  and 

died, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

Soft  and  still  is  the  evening  shower, 

Pattering  kindly  on  brake  and  bower, 

But  it  falls  too  late  for  the  perished  flower, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

There's  a  lamb  lies  lost  at  the  head  of  the 

glen, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

Lost  and  missed  from  shelling  and  pen, 

Mary  Hamilton. 


MARY  HAMILTON  127 

The  shepherd  has  sought  it  through  toil  and 

heat, 
And  sore  he  strove  when  he  heard  it  bleat, 
Ere  he  wins  to  the  lamb,  it  lies  dead  at  his  feet, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

The  mist  is  gathering  ghostly  and  chill, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

And  the  weary  maid  cometh  down  from  the 

hill, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

The  weary  maid,  but  she's  home  at  last, 

And  she  trieth  the  door,  but  the  door  is  fast, 

For  the  sun  is  down  and  the  curfew  past, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

Too  late  for  the  rose,  the  evening  rain, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

Too  late  for  the  lamb,  the  shepherd's  pain, 

Mary  Hamilton. 

Too  late  at  the  door  the  maiden's  stroke, 

Too  late  the  plea  when  the  doom  hath  been 
spoke. 

Too  late  the  balm  when  the  heart  is  broke, 

Mary  Hamilton. 


LOVE'S  PEDIGREE 


Wild  Folly,  certain  legends  tell, 

Was  wedded  to  a  maid, 
A  dusky  maid  that  loved  to  dwell 

In  drowsy  summer  shade. 

Their  offspring  is  a  fairy  elf, 

A  thing  of  tricks  and  wiles, 
He  plays  with  hearts  to  please  himself. 

And  when  they  break  he  smiles. 

Unpitied  pain,  and  toil  in  vain, 

That  little  tyrant  brings  ; 
And  those  who  fain  would  slip  his  chain 

Must  cheat  him  of  his  wings. 

To  Cupid's  torture,  you  may  guess, 

Each  parent  lends  a  part. 
The  chain,  the  toil,  from  Idleness, 

While  Folly  adds  the  smart. 


THE  KILL 


CATHCART'S  HILL 


IN    MEMORIAM 


Once  again  we  rally,  comrades, 

Comrades  of  the  old  brigade  ! 
Welcome  to  the  triple  badges, 

Star  and  Thistle  and  Grenade. 
Once  again  we  take  our  places, 

Once  again  the  healths  we  fill, 
But  we  miss  remembered  faces. 

And  we  think  of  Cathcart's  Hill. 


Round  the  circle  jests  are  passing, 
Stingless  gibe  and  harmless  jeer, 
17 


I30  CATHCART'S  HILL 

Some  are  laughing,  some  are  quaffing, 
Mirth  is  half  the  soldier's  cheer  ; 

Loudly  ring  the  glad  young  voices, 
But  a  whisper  soft  and  still, 

Bids  the  heart  that  most  rejoices. 
Spare  a  thought  for  Cathcart's  Hill. 

Needs  no  colour  waving  o'er  us, 

Many  a  hazard  to  bring  back 
Of  the  bivouac  and  the  leaguer, 

Of  the  trench  and  the  attack. 
Seems  again  the  Advance  is  sounding. 

And  the  minie  whistling  shrill, 
Batteries  playing,  mortars  pounding. 

On  the  slopes  by  Cathcart's  Hill. 

How  those  colours  have  been  carried 

Needs  no  verse  of  mine  to  tell ; 
How  the  loyal  rallied  round  them. 

How  the  brave  beneath  them  fell. 
Laurel  wreaths  are  snatched  by  glory, 

Dripping  from  a  crimson  rill. 
Some  are  here  to  tell  the  story, 

Some  are  there  on  Cathcart's  Hill. 

Oh  !  the  merry  laughing  comrade  ! 
Oh  !  the  true  and  kindly  friend. 


CATHCART'S  HILL  131 

Glowing  hopes  and  lofty  courage, 
Love  and  life,  and  this  the  end ! 

Yet  a  balm  from  grief  we  borrow, 
Though  the  eye  with  tears  may  fill, 

Half  is  pride  and  half  is  sorrow, 
While  we  speak  of  Cathcart's  Hill. 

Noble  names,  devoted  nobly, 

High  ancestral  deeds  to  share, 
Lowlier  valour,  waged  as  freely. 

All  alike  are  mouldering  there. 
Homes  are  lonely  yet  without  them. 

Women's  hearts  are  aching  still. 
Though  a  glory  hangs  about  them. 

In  their  graves  on  Cathcart's  Hill. 

While  a  soldier's  name  is  honoured, 

While  a  soldier's  fame  is  dear, 
Nowhere  shall  they  be  forgotten, 

Least  of  all,  forgotten  here. 
In  the  roll  of  those  who  perished, 

England's  mission  to  fulfil. 
None  more  proudly,  fondly  cherished, 

Than  the  dead  of  Cathcart's  Hill. 


"AVE  CtESAR!  MORITURI  TE 
SALUTANT !  " 

Wine  in  thy  visage,  roses  on  thy  brow, 
Thine  arm  begirt  with  blazing  clasp  and  gem, 
Patricians,  Commons,  eager  but  to  bow 
And  kiss  thy  garment's  broad  and  crimson 

hem. 
Barbarians,  Romans,  shouting  Hail !  and 

thou, 
Th'  Imperial  lord  of  earth,  and  us,  and  them, 
Great  patron  !  hearken  to  thy  swordsmen's 

cry, 
"  Good-morrow,  Caesar  !  we  are  here  to  die  !" 


No  Eastern  slaves,  the  dainty  fan  to  hold. 

No  satraps  we,  the  jewelled  train  to  bear. 
Nor  gaudy  guards  with  helm  and  shield  of 


gold, 


"AVE  C^SAR!"  133 

Nor  silken  eunuchs,  plump,  and  smooth,  and 

fair ; 
But  champions  of  the  arena,  firm  and  bold, 
Men  prompt  to  strike,  as  they  are  loth  to 

spare ; 
Those  fiercest  fight  who  have  not  where  to  fly, 
"  Good-morrow,  Csesar  !  we  are  here  to  die  !  " 

A  hopeful  sight,  forsooth  !  a  gallant  show  ! 

Piled  to  the  top  in  heaps,  they  sit  and 
stand, 
Rank  upon  rank,  and  row  succeeding  row, 

A  sea  of  faces  turned  to  greet  our  band. 
Aloft  the  canvas  awning  ;  and  below. 

The  dazzling  sweep  of  white  and  thirsty 
sand  ; 
Far  above  all,  a  blue  and  laughing  sky, 
"  Good-morrow,  Caesar  !  we  are  here  to  die  !" 

And  now  the  bounds  are  set,  the  match  is 
made, 
One  shakes  the  prong  across  his  shoulder 
bare  ; 
In  beaded  folds  the  dangling  net  is  laid ; 
Close  at  his  elbow  stalks  his  deadly  pair. 


134  "AVE  C^SAR!" 

Armed  with  the  vizored  helm  and  gleaming 

blade. 
An  hundred  more  are  boasting,  jesting 

there, 
Mirth  on  the  lip,  defiance  in  the  eye ; 
**  Good-morrow,  Csesar  !  we  are  here  to  die  !" 

The  air  is  sick  and  tainted,  well  I  know 

Behind  yon  boards  the  Libyan  monster  lies, 
Yawns  for  his  prey  and  yearns  to  reach  his  foe, 
With  dripping  maw,  and  sullen,  sleepless 
eyes  ; 
Soon  loud  applause  to  dumb  suspense  shall 
grow, 
When  man  and  brute  are  grappling  for  the 
prize. 
The  tiger  and  the  swordsman — he  and  I — 
"  Good-morrow,  Caesar  !  we  are  here  to  die  ! " 

The  time  draws  near — even  now  I  seem  to 

feel 
The  reeking  gash — the  torn  and  dragging 

limb — 
Though  to  his  heart  I  drive  the  quivering 

steel. 


"AVE  CtESAR!"  135 

What  boots  an  athlete's  arm  to  cope  with 
him  ? 
Beneath  that  crushing  gripe  my  senses  reel, 
White  forms  and  whiter  faces  round  me 
swim, 
Paler  and  paler,  fading  ere  they  fly, 
"  Good-morrow,  Caesar  !  we  are  here  to  die  !' 

A  goodly  lot  is  ours,  in  truth,  who  drive, 
To  please  a  cruel  mob,  the  swordsman's 
trade, 

Resting  to  drink,  and  roused  again  to  strive, 
We  drop  the  beaker,  but  to  grasp  the 
blade. 

In  death  derided,  pampered  when  alive, 
To  fill  the  gaps  by  wanton  slaughter  made  ; 

Gaps  that  a  later  brood  must  still  supply, 

"  Good-morrow,  Caesar !  we  are  here  to  die  !" 

I  have  a  fair  young  wife  at  home — and  he, 

A  loving  mother  ;  and  Rufellus  leaves 
Two  bright-haired  urchins,  reaching  to  his 
knee ; 
With  every  stroke  some  kindred  bosom 
grieves. 


136  "AVE  C^SAR!" 

'Tis  sad  to  hear  the  shouts — 'tis  sad  to  see 
How  few  the  fallen  a  Roman  crowd  re- 
prieves ; 
In  grim  despair  the  prostrate  champions  lie, 
"  Good-morrow,  Caesar  !  we  are  here  to  die  !  " 

To-morrow  where  shall  be  the  long  array, 
That  now  defiles  so  bravely  past  thy  throne? 

The  victims  and  the  heroes  of  to-day  ! 
Yet  comes  to-morrow  not  for  us  alone. 

The  bow  is  bent,  nor  Jove  himself  can  stay, 
Nor  fate  recall,  the  shaft  that  once  had 
flown ; 

And  ours  hath  struck,  and  thine  is  hovering 
nigh  : 

"  Good-morrow,  Caesar  !  all  are  here  to  die  !  " 


YSONDE  WITH  THE  WHITE 
HAND 


Tristrem  lies  desperately  wounded.  The  gangrene  be- 
comes daily  worse,  and  can  be  cured  by  none  but  Ysonde  of 
Cornwall.  Tristrem  dispatches  Ganhardin  to  Ysonde,  with 
his  ring  as  a  token,  directing  him  to  communicate  to  the 
queen  the  extremity  of  his  distress.  He  desires  him  to  take 
with  him  two  sails,  one  white  and  the  other  black  ;  the  for- 
mer to  be  hoisted  on  his  return  in  case  Ysonde  should  ac- 
company him  to  Brittany,  and  the  latter  if  his  embassy  should 
be  unsuccessful.  Ysonde  of  Brittany  overhears  the  conver- 
sation, and  resolves  to  be  avenged  of  her  husband  for  his 
infidelity.  Ganhardin  goes  to  England  disguised  as  a 
merchant.  Ysonde  disguises  herself,  and  accompanies  Gan- 
hardin on  board  ship  to  undertake  Sir  Tristrem's  cure. 
They  approach  the  coast  of  Brittany  displaying  the  white 
sail.  Ysonde  of  Brittany  perceives  the  vessel,  and  knows 
from  the  token  of  the  white  sail  that  her  rival  is  on  board. 
Fired  with  jealousy,  she  hastens  to  Sir  Tristrem,  and  tells 
him  the  ship  is  in  sight.  He  conjures  her  to  tell  him  the 
colour  of  the  sails.  She  informs  him  they  are  black,  on 
which,  concluding  himself  forsaken  by  Ysonde,  Tristrem 
sinks  back  in  despair  and  dies.  Ysonde  of  Cornwall  arrives 
learns  the  death  of  her  lover,  and  expires  for  grief. 

["Sir  Tristrem."  Abridged  from  the  French  metrical 
romance  in  the  style  of  "  Tomas  of  Erceldoun,"  by  Sir  Walter 
Scott.] 

i8 


YSONDE 

Y SONDE  of  Brittany 
With  the  white  hand, 
Cleaving  the  western  sea, 

Coasting  the  strand, 
Look  if  a  ship  there  be 

SaiHng  to  land, 
Ysonde  of  Brittany, 
With  the  white  hand  !  " 

"  Red  in  the  western  sea 

Sinketh  the  sun. 
Never  a  ship  to  thee 

Saileth  but  one. 
Love  on  her  deck  may  be, 

Leechcraft  is  none ; 
Husband,  so  false  to  me, 

111  hast  thou  done  !  " 

"Ysonde,  my  troth  and  plight, 

Are  they  not  thine  ? 
Wife,  lest  I  die  to-night, 

Read  me  the  sign. 
Sail  hath  she  black  or  white 

Dipping  the  brine  ? 
Read  me  the  truth  aright, 

Fair  wife  of  mine  !  " 


WITH  THE  WHITE  HAND      139 

'*  Black  as  the  raven's  wing 

Flouting  the  slain, 
Black  as  the  cloud  in  spring 

Breaking  to  rain  ; 
Black  as  the  wrongs  that  fling 

Shame  on  us  twain, 
Flappeth  her  sail  to  bring 

Succour  in  vain  !  " 

Drooped  his  unconquered  head, 

Paler  he  grew, 
Death  on  his  marriage-bed 

Held  him,  he  knew. 
Word  of  reproach,  he  said, 

Never  but  two, 
Breathed,  while  the  spirit  fled, 

"  Ysonde — untrue  !  " 

Ysonde  of  Cornwall,  see 

Heart-broken,  stand, 
Tristrem  was  dead  ere  she 

Leaped  to  the  land. 
Lulled  may  thy  vengeance  be, 

Deftly  'twas  planned, 
Ysonde  of  Brittany 

With  the  white  hand  ! 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


Form  L9-42to-8,'49(B5573)444 


THE  LIBRARY 
rmrvKasiTY  OF  CALIFORNSA 


5802      Hunfcing  poems 
ii92 . 


SOUTHERN  REGIONS  UBRABVFACIU 


AA  000  385  889  i 


PR 

5802 

H92 


